“Tomorrow,” said the old Earl with enthusiasm.
Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley who was enjoying his soup, a purée he liked particularly.
“But isn’t there something you could do?”
“Yes. Write, for America—for Italy—for Sweden and Holland—for Spain. It’s something, but it isn’t enough. My fingers are itching for a sword.”
The Honorable Cyril looked up.
“Pen mightier than sword,” he quoted vacuously, and went on with his soup.
“You don’t really mean that, Hammersley,” said Kipshaven amid smiles.
“Well rather,” drawled the other. “All silly rot—fightin’. What’s the use. Spoiled my boar-shootin’ in Hesse-Nassau—no season at Carlsbad—no season anywhere—everything the same—winter—summer——”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were in the trenches, my boy,” laughed Byfield.
“Beastly happy I’m not,” said Hammersley. “Don’t mind shootin’ pheasant or boar. Bad form—shootin’ men—not the sportin’ thing, you know—pottin’ a bird on the ground—’specially Germans.”