Obviously, he did not expect her. She let him saunter a yard or two along the platform; noticed the cleanliness of his boots, the sheen of his spurs. Then she touched him on the arm, said: “Taxi, sir?”
He turned round; began to say something; recognized her; burst out, “Good God, Pat, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Meeting lonely soldiers,” she laughed: and put up her lips to be kissed. He took her in his arms. . . .
“But you ought to be in bed,” he protested, as they made way arm-in-arm along the crowded platform.
“My dear, if I can drive Tommies home four nights a week, surely I can devote one to meeting my own husband. Have you had anything to eat?”
“Rather. And a bath at Boulogne. And a cabin to myself on the boat. It’s quite a comfortable journey if only one knows the ropes. I say, what are these poor devils going to do?” He looked at the crowd of men, mud-stained, kit-loaded.
“Sleep in the waiting-rooms till the trains start running.”
He let go her arm; stood still. “Supposing I weren’t here,” he said, “what would you do?”
“Oh, we usually try and find two or three who live fairly close, not more than five miles out. Then we drive them home.”
Husband and wife looked at each other; then Peter said: “Damn it all, Pat. . . .”