“Tim,” he said, “has been rather a disappointment to me. He hasn’t invented a single thing since the war began.”
“I should have thought,” I said, “that this would have been his opportunity.”
“So it is. The country’s simply crying out for inventions. Aerial torpedoes, traps for submarines, wireless methods of exploding the enemy’s ammunition, heaps of things of that sort. Tim might scoop up an immense fortune and be made a baronet. But instead of inventing—and he could if he chose—the young fool is flying about somewhere and dropping bombs on German railways. I’m inclined to think it was a mistake putting Tim into the Flying Corps at all. I wonder if we could get him out again. Do you know any one you could write to about him?”
“No,” I said, “not a soul.”
“Pity,” said Gorman. “A little personal influence helps a lot in things of this sort, and a letter from you——”
I thought it time to change the subject.
“The Aschers?” I said. “Ever see them now?”
“I met her in the Park on Sunday. She’s Red Crossing. Had on the most elaborate costume you ever saw. Imagine a nurse’s uniform brought up to the standard of the highest art, or perhaps I ought to say an artistic dress with the red cross for motif. She told me that she expects to go to the Front next week.”
“Thank God she didn’t go sooner! She might have nursed me if she’d been there in time.”
“She’d have done it all right,” said Gorman. “I hear she’s a splendid organiser in spite of her clothes. Always was a remarkable woman, though you didn’t care for her. There’s been a lot of trouble about Ascher.”