He limped back to his chair and sat thinking her over.
“I wonder,” he said at last, and turned to his work again....
There was no getting on with it. Half an hour later he accepted defeat. “Peter has knocked us all crooked,” he said. “There’s no work for today.”
He would go out and prowl round the place and look at the roses. Perhaps Joan would come and talk. But at the gates he was amazed to encounter Peter.
It was Peter, hot and dusty from a walk of three miles, and carrying his valise with an aching left arm. There was a look of defiance in the eyes that stared fiercely out from under the perspiration-matted hair upon his forehead. He seemed to find Oswald’s appearance the complete confirmation of the most disagreeable anticipations. Thoughts of panic and desertion flashed upon Oswald’s mind.
“Good God, Peter!” he cried. “What brings you back?”
“I’ve come back for another week,” said Peter.
“But your leave’s up!”
“I told a lie, sir. I’ve got another week.”
Oswald stared at his ward.