“One likes to feel that one is helping,” Rosie explained.
Their manner towards him was more gracious than it had appeared of late. On the few occasions when they had met since his engagement they had contrived to convey a sense of aggrieved disapproval, and had pointedly refrained from offering him their congratulations on his forthcoming marriage. They never referred to Brenda.
“Mr Macfarlane told us you were going to Europe,” May said. “When do you sail? I’ve promised to write to half a dozen boys who have joined up for overseas.”
“I’ve changed my mind about that,” he said. “There’s work to be done out here first.”
Immediately their interest waned.
“If I were a man, as I told Mr Macfarlane, I’d want to go where the big things are doing,” May asserted. “I wouldn’t be bothered with these horrid rebels.”
“Somebody must,” he said, and refrained from further comment. It would be wasted labour, he felt, to question their point of view.
“But it would be such a lark, going to Europe. It’s the chance of a lifetime. I wish mother would let me go.”
“Nursing?” he inquired.
“Oh, nursing! That’s horrid work. No. I’d like to drive an ambulance wagon, or do something smart... and wear a uniform like the men.”