True to his word, Jack Denver drove his car over from Aldershot to the Pines three days later. He stayed to tea and talked more to Hubert than to her. And after tea he suggested a spin to Hindhead and the Devil’s Punchbowl.
“I’m afraid an open car is one of the things I’m forbidden,” said Hubert.
“Then what about you, Mrs. Garling?” asked Jack.
“My wife doesn’t care about motoring,” said her husband harshly.
A truly impossible fellow, reflected Jack, as he drove back to barracks. Charming in other respects—but on the subject of his wife quite impossible. And deep down inside a warning voice began to make itself heard—a voice that counselled caution. With a husband like that the most ordinary everyday politeness would be misconstrued. And Jack Denver was quite sufficiently honest with himself to realize that, if he saw much of Hilda Garling, he would have considerable difficulty in keeping things on the plane of conventional courtesy. In fact, as he dressed for mess that night he apostrophized his reflection in the glass in no uncertain manner.
“You’re nine-tenths of the way towards falling in love with another man’s wife. And that’s a complication at the best of times. But, with a husband like that, it’s the devil. So take a pull at yourself, young feller; take a pull.”
And a pull he did take—for quite a fortnight. Then, as luck would have it, duty took him to Portsmouth. He couldn’t get back to Aldershot the same night, and the following morning he started back in his car. And as he got near the Pines his pace grew slower and slower. Finally he stopped and lit a cigarette.
“Don’t be a fool,” said one voice. “Go on; there’s polo at the club this afternoon.”
“You’ve played polo every day for the last week,” said another voice. “The man can’t eat you if you ask for lunch. Don’t be a coward.”
And since it’s better to be called a fool than a coward, the second voice won. Jack Denver went to the Pines for the second time. And when he left at about five o’clock the nine-tenths had changed to nineteen-twentieths.