They climbed into the comfortable limousine; and purred off through Annequin village, shuttered and asleep; swung to the west.
“Heard from Pat?” asked Francis.
“Yesterday. She’s with her father.”
“Let me see, that’s Harley Street, isn’t it? I’ll drop her a line myself tomorrow. One can’t write much on these ‘hush’ jobs. I’ve been in Spain, the last three months. By the way, Peter, you’re grown very silent since I saw you last. . . .”
Peter lit a cigar, and his cousin saw, in the light of the match, new lines on the firm face, a trace of gray in the dark hair: “Oh, I’ve been having a pretty thin time, one way and the other.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Arthur?”
“Arthur came home. He’s in the R.F.C.[[8]] somewhere or other. Rummy devil. Rather like you. Never writes letters.”
They came without mishap into the great Place of Béthune; and Peter saw, black by moonlight, round holes in the shining roofs—sole sign of long-range bombardment.