“He wouldn’t believe me ...” Hedda chirrupped irrepressibly. The world bereft of Gustav was so full of radiant possibilities that she could not refrain from bursting out. For her, at least, the war was not entirely an evil thing.
Mr Redbury spoke quite correct English, but his accent was not so irreproachable as to justify the complete good faith of the “vellow in the Zity.” And that “selige” had slipped in by mistake; and would prevent him from being quite so privately nasty to his wife about “mein Schatz” as he had anticipated.
A joint appeared on the table simultaneously with the post. One letter bearing the “opened by Censor” label, black letters on white pasted across the slit of the envelope, was handed by the servant to Mrs Redbury.
“Ach Gott! von der liebsten besten Anna!” as a second letter was revealed under cover of the first.
Mr Redbury hissed out a venomous “Put it away!” which his wife, fumbling and tearful over this communication from her beloved elder sister in Berlin, neither heard nor heeded. Mr Redbury dared not insist, in front of Rhoda, the parlour-maid—not to mention Beatrice, Samson Phillips and Miss Swinley. Besides, though his sway might be peevishly unpleasant, it never exacted the awed obedience yielded to a true despot. He quivered with horror at the present predicament, as it dawned upon him that his wife intended to read aloud the letter from Germany, in little bursts and snatches of joy. David was encouraging her by eager questions—that boy had no sense whatever. Mr Redbury began to talk very loud and fast.
“It makes me broud to see all the ghagi round my table”—he looked unutterable compliments at Samson Phillips’ captain’s uniform, then possessively at Hardy, who was short-sighted and had only been admitted to Home Service; and at David, a public-school cadet. “If only Con vere here, to gomblete our number; did I tell you, Captain Villips, zat my eldest boy has been mentioned in disbatches for botting four Huns wiz his own rifle?”
“Glad to hear Con has a sense of property!” muttered David.
“Ei, die Arme!” cried Mrs Redbury, weeping. “Franz has been shot. You remember little Franz, Otto? Ach verzeihen Sie—forgive me, Captain Villips. Such a dear little boy, my sister’s youngest. He stayed with us for a whole year, and learnt his lessons wiz Nell.”
Vindictively Mr Redbury carved all the gristle for Hedda, who had a German husband. It was a vent to his feelings. He showed a nice discrimination in reserving the juiciest bits for Beatrice; Miss Swinley, he judged correctly, was past all such caressing treatment; one could safely anticipate her month’s notice the very next morning. Not that she was really necessary any longer to superintend Nell’s studies. Nell was seventeen, and in the ordinary course of events, would have been “out” next year. But Miss Swinley would spread a report that her principles would not permit her to remain in a household so pronouncedly pro-German.... To Mr Redbury’s jaundiced fancy, the tread of the policeman sounded nearer. And he was never far away—that mythical policeman.
“Oh, Mother, is there anything about Max?” asked Nell, her dark liquid eyes wistful with anxiety for her favourite brother.