“Torrington?” Francis thought the name over. “Yes. I remember him. He was there the night I dined with them. Where did you meet him? Is he on leave too?”
“No. He’s home for good. He never ought to have gone out, you know. But he insisted—and broke down. You men are so stupid about that sort of thing. I suppose you’ll want to do something again as soon as your leg’s right. . . .”
“I wonder,” said Francis. “You see, I’ll never be any good at my own job again. A man with a limp is too easily spotted. And as for office jobs, there seem to be enough stay-at-home heroes without me. . . .”
“I wonder why it is”—Patricia lit herself a cigarette—“that you are all so bitter against the people who stay at home. Everybody can’t go to the front.”
“It isn’t everybody who wants to,” commented Francis acridly.
She changed the topic; produced the Christmas present she had brought—a Whytwarth fountain-pen, gold-mounted and of enormous ink-capacity. He eyed it doubtfully at first; till she shewed him the simplicity of its action. Then he began to take professional interest; screwed it up and down again; tested the nib on the fly-leaf of one of the many books at his bed-side.
“By Jove, Pat,” he said at last, “I believe you’ve discovered the only fountain-pen. . . . And I never thought you a clever woman!”
Remembering old animosities, she blushed at that, and they laughed together like two children.
“And when does Peter arrive?” he asked.
“Late, I’m afraid. Not before midnight anyway.”