Shortly afterwards, with a “See you two again, I hope,” from the Colonel, and a “Yes. Do come in and dine with us, won’t you?” from his wife, the couple stepped across to the lift, shot upwards out of sight.
“Another drink?” asked Peter, lighting a cigar.
“Not much.” Bromley, a little flushed about the gills, tapped a cigarette on the back of his case. “That Colonel friend of yours must have a head like a balk of teak.”
They settled themselves comfortably in front of the fire. It lacked five minutes to half-past ten. Thought Bromley: “P.J. doesn’t realize how near we are to a bust-up. If anything happened to the old Major, Locksley would soon put his foot on us.” Thought Peter: “If ‘B’ Company weren’t so jolly good: and if we hadn’t made it ourselves: there might be something in a transfer.” But the evening had yet to provide its finale.
“Hallo, P.J.” interrupted a voice.
Peter looked up; saw the bow legs, the unpleasant features of Locksley-Jones. The fellow came over to the fire; stood with his back to it; said—taking no notice of Bromley—“Care for a drink, P.J.?”
“Thanks. No.”
“Devilish pretty woman you were talking to just now. Wish you’d introduce me, some time. . . .” Peter did not answer: he thought, suddenly, of the tears in Bareton’s eyes.
“By the way,” went on Locksley, taking no notice of the snub, “have you chaps got a taxi? My car’s broken down. The magneto’s gone wrong, I believe. If you have, I’d like a lift. . . .”
Bromley never moved.