“I suppose so.” She had never known him quite so absorbed. “Is there anything the matter, Peter?” she went on.
“Lots. I’ll tell you after lunch. I wrote you about Alice being here, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you didn’t say where she was staying.”
“At the Metropole. We’re to dine with them this evening. There’s a dance or something, I believe.”
He was enormously glad to have her with him: but far too occupied about regimental and other matters to shew it. The handsome woman sitting opposite to him—tight chinchilla motor-bonnet and plain Lovat-tweed tailor-made accentuated both figure and fairness—summoned many eyes in that room: but not her husband’s.
Luncheon over, they settled themselves in the little apartment leading off the lounge; drew chairs to the fire: and he sketched for her the position as between himself and Locksley, Bromley and Locksley, the regiment and Locksley.
Her limited experience of men could not grasp it.
“But, Peter, it all seems so childish. Like a lot of boys at school. And surely, with people being killed every day, this is not the time for you others to quarrel.”
“You’re perfectly right, old thing. That’s what I told Harold only last night. What makes me mad is that one man can do so much harm. Honestly, if it weren’t for Locksley I believe we should never have had any of this trouble. As it is,” he paused a moment, “we two have decided to get out.”
“But isn’t that,” she said the words deliberately, “an admission of failure?”