“I shall order the touring car at three o'clock,” Dominey told her. “We shall get home about nine. Parkins and your maid can go down by train. Does that suit you?”
“Delightfully!”
He took her arm and they paced slowly along the hot walk.
“Rosamund dear,” he said, “the time has come which many people have been dreading. We are at war.”
“I know,” she murmured.
“You and I have had quite a happy time together, these last few months,” he went on, “even though there is still that black cloud between us. I have tried to treat you as kindly and tenderly as though I were really your husband and you were indeed my wife.”
“You're not going away?” she cried, startled. “I couldn't bear that! No one could ever be so sweet as you have been to me.”
“Dear,” he said, “I want you to think—of your husband—of Everard. He was a soldier once for a short time, was he not? What do you think he would have done now that this terrible war has come?”
“He would have done what you will do,” she answered, with the slightest possible tremor in her tone. “He would have become a soldier again, he would have fought for his country.”
“And so must I—fight for my country,” he declared. “That is why I must leave you for an hour now while I make some calls. I shall be back to luncheon. Directly afterwards we must start. I have many things to arrange first, though. Life is not going to be very easy for the next few days.”