“Not for myself. Heaven forbid! But my men are always shouting for more stoves. Doubt if even Cora could throw half a hundred lusty fusiliers out of their recreation room. I’ll have a look at her, if I may.”
He and Jenny and Deb went up to the second floor to inspect Cora.
“There she is already ...” mourned Deb, on the first floor landing.
Presently the three of them were standing with gaze fixed in fascinated silence upon the object for purchase. There was no other illumination in the room; Cora cast her spells in hard blocks of white light and black shadow....
A boarding-house—an oil-stove—the soldier—Jenny Carew—it struck Deb from what a bizarre rag-bag romance drew its patchwork pieces. She stole a look at Burton Ames; he was old; possibly about forty-six; and had an air of being neglected—neglectful: his khaki slouched over his chunky shoulders; his hair, grizzled fawn, was disordered and ragged; the corners of his eyes gathered into wrinkles. Not young, not successful, not handsome, and married ... she had heard him mention a wife somewhere in the West Country.... Preposterous that even for five swift seconds she should have received an impression that the big thing might be hidden here for her—
And then she saw that Jenny’s charming little gamin face was alive, and warm, and flickering as firelight; roguery achase round her lips; tears on her brown, blunt lashes; promise and mutiny and tenderness ... what was the matter with Jenny? Slowly the soldier’s hand came out and closed tightly round her arm, just above the elbow.... Deb, still watching, almost winced at sight of the grip....
And then Ames let go; and flung himself down in the armchair close at hand; and said, with the content of a man who unexpectedly finds sanctuary: “Let’s stop up here. We don’t want other people. I’m sick of the trail of other people littering the house. I like it up here.”
Yes—but where was the place for Deb, in Deb’s room?
She had no need of married people; took it for granted that the married man cannot lead by splendid sun-beaten ways to finality; that a married woman has ever the advantage over a maid, by won tranquillity of experience. She had no need of these two. Then why did they leave it lying about under her notice ... whatever it was they had found? The atmosphere was neither amorous nor exotic; but Deb had an impression as though the eternal man and woman had just come home; and that at any moment he might commit some little commonplace act—slip off his coat and hand it to Jenny to be mended, to make significant the fact that they were man and woman come home—
—In her room. Petulantly she turned away from sight of Jenny’s face ... could she reach the door and get out before Jenny’s lidded emotions brimmed over into action?—Too late! ... Jenny’s arms were strangling Deb, Jenny’s scorching lips were on Deb’s cheek and neck, Jenny’s half-sobbing half-laughing runs and murmurings of incoherence were thrown upon the unnatural silence ... “You darling—darling—darling! I’ve wanted to hug you like this since the first night you crept into the lounge. You’re such a beautiful little thing ... isn’t she? Isn’t she? Oh, I’m so happy you’re here—do let’s all three be pals—I hate everyone else in this beastly place ... little funny, sorrowful, creamy kid, I like you—I like you——”