“The Shervintons you know all about, don’t you?” he went on. “The soldiers are just young men from the Norwich barracks, Doctor Lennard was my father’s tutor at Oxford, and Mr. Hannaway Wells is our latest Cabinet Minister.”
“He still has the novice’s smirk,” she remarked. “A moment ago I heard him tell his neighbour that he preferred not to discuss the war. He probably thinks that there is a spy under the table.”
“Well, there we are—such as we are,” Julian concluded. “There is no one left except me.”
“Then tell me all about yourself,” she suggested. “Really, when I come to think of it, considering the length of our conversations, you have been remarkably reticent. You are the youngest of the family, are you not? How many brothers are there?”
“There were four,” he told her. “Henry was killed at Ypres last year. Guy is out there still. Richard is a Brigadier.”
“And you?”
“I am a barrister by profession, but I went out with the first Inns of Court lot for a little amateur soldiering and lost part of my foot at Mons. Since then I have been indulging in the unremunerative and highly monotonous occupation of censoring.”
“Monotonous indeed, I should imagine,” she agreed. “You spend your time reading other people’s letters, do you not, just to be sure that there are no communications from the enemy?”
“Precisely,” he assented. “We discover ciphers and all sorts of things.”
“What brainy people you must be!”