“Oh—Uncle Otto!” Deb’s tone rang scornfully.
“Yes—I used to laugh at him, too. I don’t now. We—we come down to that, Deb, when we’re in a panic.”
“Was that what you meant, what you hoped, when you told me I must marry Samson? Somebody to grab on to?”
Richard nodded. “Yes. But never mind. You don’t care enough for him, do you?”
“How could he help you?”
“He’s solid English through and through; have you noticed how people imagine that every Jew must be a German—or every German a Jew—I forget which. But Phillips’ cousin is Sir Ephraim Phillips; David seemed to think he was going to be useful over Fürth, get a permit for Hedda to see him oftener—only David says Hedda doesn’t want to. If he were to vouch for me, perhaps—they listen to a man who has enlisted from the very beginning, and got the M.C.” A long pause ... and then Richard whispered under his breath, with the reverence of a pilgrim who speaks of his Mecca: “He might perhaps have got me into the trenches....”
Presently he jerked out, in his roughest manner: “Look here, Deb, old girl—forget all this. Perfect rot, really. Don’t suppose he could do anything—much. I was simply mooching about—and—and a poster or something got on my nerves and sent me pelting down here. I wouldn’t for worlds have you bother about Phillips when you’re not keen on him. Not fair on him, either.”
“I was wondering how you guessed, that’s all ...” Deb’s head was turned away from him; he stared incredulously at the wavy black mop of hair—what had she done to her hair?...
“Guessed?”
“That—I made such a fool of myself.... Oh, Richard! that I chucked away everything last year—just for a bit of fun.”