"I was told it was urgent, sir," said the orderly, in excuse for his intrusion, as he passed a telegram to Lanstron.
Immediately Lanstron felt the touch of the paper his features seemed to take on a mask that concealed his thought as he read:
"Take night express. Come direct from station to me. Partow."
This meant that he would be expected at Partow's office at eight the next morning. He wrote his answer; the orderly saluted and departed at a rapid pace; and then, as a matter of habit of the same kind that makes some men wipe their pens when laying them down, he struck a match and set fire to one corner of the paper, which burned to his fingers' ends before he tossed the charred remains away. Marta imagined what he would be like with the havoc of war raging around him—all self-possession and mastery; but actually he was trying to reassure himself that he ought not to feel petulant over a holiday cut short.
"I shall have to go at once," he said. "Marta, if there were to be war very soon—within a week or two weeks—what would be your attitude about Feller's remaining?"
"To carry out his plan, you mean?"
"Yes."
There was a perceptible pause on her part.
"Let him stay," she answered. "I shall have time to decide even after war begins."
"But instantly war begins you must go!" he declared urgently.