"And now look here," continued Aubrey. "Before I go, you must turn into bed, old chap. You need sleep more than you know. I can do a little prescribing myself. I am going to give you a dose of sleeping stuff which brought me merciful oblivion, after long nights of maddening wakefulness. You will feel another man, when you wake in the morning. But I am coming with you to the Hague. I can tend the Infant, while you go to the publishers. I will see you safely on board at the Hook, on the following evening, and next day you will be at home. After all those months alone in the long grass, you don't want any more solitary travelling. Now come to bed."
Ronnie rose unsteadily. "Aubrey," he said, "you are a most awfully good fellow. I shall tell Helen. She will—will—will be so—so grateful. I'm perfectly all right, you know; but other people seem so—so busy, and—and—so vague. You will help me to—to—to—arrest their attention. I must take the Infant to bed."
"Yes, yes," said Aubrey; "we will find a cosy place for the Infant. If Helen were here she would provide a bassinet. Don't forget that joke. It will amuse Helen. I make you a present of it. If Helen were here she would provide a bassinet and a pram for the Infant of Prague."
Ronnie laughed. "I shall tell Helen you said so." Then, carrying the 'cello, he lurched unsteadily through the doorway. The Infant's head had a narrow escape.
Aubrey Treherne sent off the telegram. He required to alter only one word.
When it reached Helen, the next morning at breakfast, it read thus: Owing to astonishing news in letter prefer to meet you quietly at home. All well. Coming by 3 o'clock train. Home to tea.—Ronald.
Helen suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She had expected something quite different. The adjective "astonishing" seemed strangely cold and unlike Ronnie. She had thought he would say "wonderful," or "unbelievable," or "glorious."
But before she had finished her first cup of coffee, she had reasoned herself back into complete content. Ronnie, in an unusual fit of thoughtfulness, had remembered her feeling about the publicity of telegrams. She had so often scolded him for putting "darling" and "best of love" into messages which all had to be shouted by telephone from the postal town, into the little village office which, being also the village grocery store, was a favourite rendezvous at all hours of the day for village gossips.
It was quite unusually considerate of Ronnie to curb the glowing words he must have longed to pour forth. The very effort of that curbing, had reduced him to a somewhat stilted adjective.