So thinking, Peter stepped out of the Pullman on to the platform of Victoria Station.
§ 2
This time, no Patricia met him. Apparently his wire to her had not arrived. He looked at the clock above the archway; saw it was half-past two; and decided to go straight to the City.
In the Underground, an elderly civilian insisted on talking to him; asked—looking at his high-laced boots, his soft cap, his bulging haversack—if he had been to the Front.
“Just come from it,” answered Peter, lighting a fresh cigar.
“You’re in the R.F.A., aren’t you? I wonder if you’ve ever met my nephew. No, he’s not got a commission. A sergeant, I believe he is. His name’s Tomkins, same as mine: but I’ve forgotten the number of his battery. . . .”
The conversation lasted till the train pulled up in the cavernous gloom of Monument Station.
“Silly old ass,” thought Peter as he clinked along Gracechurch Street. “These people at home seem to think the R.F.A. is about as big as a platoon.”
Pushing his way through the glass doors of the office, he bumped his haversack; vented an Expeditionary Force oath.
No office-girl sat at the reception window. The racks in the duty-paid stock-rooms were quite empty; he passed between them into the back office; found Miss Macpherson, busy with ledgers and foolscap, sitting at Simpson’s old desk.