What a cartoon! A whole series of Peter Smithers in moods of rage and humility; Peter shaking his fist; Peter threatened with firing squads and blank walls; Peter and old von Stein—there you had a contrast! Her eyes were dancing; she was laughing to herself as the pictures flitted before her vision, only to bite her lip when she noticed her mother's stare and lapse into the marking-time attitude which she had planned to take her through the meal.
"Yes, of course we must invite Peter," said Madame Ribot. "Do write to Dr. Sanford about it."
"Do, please!" chimed in Henriette.
The vicar was looking to Phil for his lead in the matter.
"By all means!" he said.
Just then his glance happened to meet Helen's, and hers seemed to convey a repressed irony, which melted into that blankness of expression with its self-effacement that always puzzled him. Always the artist—always changing, he thought, while Henriette's charm was unvarying.
"And you will stay on here?" he said to Henriette.
"No. I, too, am going to do my bit," she replied.
She was to take a course in nursing and go to France with Lady Truckleford's hospital unit.
"You were so good at binding up the wounded soldier's arm in the gully that I foresee a great success," said Phil.