Richard was badly jarred by the last words. It struck him that David was carrying flippant detachment rather too far; one might well be glad of a brother who was guilty of the stock heroism. “Con jolly well deserves a medal for that,” he remarked on an aggressive note.
And David said: “He’s been recommended for the D.S.O.”—and suddenly he jerked up his head and went crimson.... Richard turned his eyes away from that surge of hot red pride. Funny, how one never knew, with David!
Trudchen Redbury popped in her head, as though in search of someone.
“Ach, Davidchen——” she nodded kindly to the two boys, but still did not appear to have found what—or who—she wanted. Her comfortable fat little face was rough and scrapy with long crying—the kind of crying that goes on and on, and stops for a bit, and smiles and talks and gives the orders in the kitchen, and then meanders on again....
Trudchen had none of the Spartan courage recommended to mothers nowadays.
“Hullo, Mums!”—David sprang up and laid his arm round her dumpy shoulders and gently put his lips to her cheek—(Yes, he was a dear fellow, her youngest boy, and so much more considerate than Con, who had always nearly knocked her down with his violent hugs.... “Mein Konrad!”)
“Na, Richard, how goes your Aunt Stella?”
“She’s coming this afternoon.” And Richard growled something in which the word “sorry” vaguely occurred.
“David, vot do you sink?—if I write to liebe Anna now, it vill gewiss reach her in the neighbourhood of the sixtieth birthday when there vill be rejoicings—what one can rejoice these days——” she shrugged resignedly. “Our Con more than you or Max your Aunt’s loveling ever was. Vot do you sink, David?”—for the second time; “shall I vait before I write to Berlin—a month perhaps? One does not wish to spoil a birthday.”
But beyond a queer look shot towards Richard, David made no comment. And presently Trudchen went on, with a sort of chirruppy perplexity: