“Are you going to meet him?”
“Of course.”
He began to tease her aimlessly; called her the “expectant bride.” “Do you know, Pat, that I believe you’re madly in love with that cousin of mine. After nine years of matrimony, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Said Patricia, arranging her veil for the street: “I shouldn’t chaff people too much about being in love, if I were you, Francis”: and with a meaning glance at Beatrice’s photograph on the mantelpiece, departed.
§ 3
As Patricia paced up and down the cold, scarce-lit platform, the great vault of Victoria Station seemed like a tomb. Already the leave-train from France had been announced. But it was half-past two on Christmas morning; and, except for herself and two ordered taxis, none waited. England had not yet troubled to organize any reception for her weary fighting-men. They would arrive, as Patricia and a few voluntary motor-drivers had so often seen them arrive, cheerlessly, unfed, unwelcomed, to sleep the night as best they might in fireless waiting-rooms, or tramp the streets till dawn.
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, mum,” said a porter who knew her of old, touching his cap.
She told him she was waiting for her husband; and he bustled off in search of information.
“Another five minutes, mum. They must have had a bad crossing. She didn’t get to Folkestone till nearly one o’clock.”
A bell clanged; she saw the glow of smoke and sparks; the train slid alongside the platform, stopped, began to disgorge its khaki. She had met that train so often; knew so exactly what to expect; but always before, she had watched the third-class carriages. Now, she had eyes only for the Pullman. Excitedly, she scrutinized the descending officers. . . . Last of them all, very calm, cigar-butt between his lips, coat-collar pulled up to the eyes, cane under his arm, came Peter.