“As you like, dear,” she answered: but the heart grew heavy within her. She wanted him to herself, to herself: and he was away from her already, striding here and there among the men.
“Any of you men live in London?” asked P.J.
“Yes, sir. I do, sir. So do I, sir,” a dozen voices answered the question.
“West London? Marylebone? Regent’s Park?”
“Albany Street, sir.” A heavy-laden infantryman detached himself from the crowd; looked up expectantly.
“Right. I’ll drive you home. Any one else live that way?”
“My mate was coming ’ome with me. Could you take ’im too, sir?” asked the infantryman.
“Very well. Hurry up, though.” Peter turned to the crowd; said: “Sorry you chaps. I can’t manage more than two. Merry Christmas to you all.”
“Merry Christmas, sir,” answered a dozen voices. . . .
“I’ve got a brace,” he told her, “and they both want to go to Albany Street. It’s hardly out of our way at all.”