“That’s why I brought Dick,” Lance replied. “He believes in tension. But I wonder whether your notion of relaxing is getting lax?”
“There’s a difference, though it’s sometimes rather fine,” Kenwardine answered with a twinkle. “But come in and amuse yourselves as you like. If you want a drink, you know where to find it.”
They played a game of billiards and then went into another room, where Dick lost a sovereign to Kenwardine. After that, he sat in a corner, smoking and languidly looking about, for he had been hard at work since early morning. Two or three subaltern officers from a neighboring camp stood by the table, besides several other men whose sunburned faces indicated a country life. The carpets and furniture were getting shabby, but the room was large and handsome, with well-molded cornices and paneled ceiling. The play was not high and the men were quiet, but the room was filled with cigar smoke and there was a smell of liquor. Dick did not object to drink and gambling in moderation, though it was seldom that he indulged in either. He found no satisfaction in that sort of thing, and he now felt that some of Kenwardine’s friends would do better to join the new armies than to waste their time as they were doing.
At last Kenwardine threw down the cards.
“I think we have had enough for a time,” he said. “Shall we go into the music-room, for a change?”
Dick followed the others, and looked up with surprise when Clare came in. Lance had spoken of a pretty girl, but she was not the type Dick had expected. She wore a very plain white dress, with touches of blue that emphasized her delicate coloring. Her hair was a warm yellow with deeper tones, her features were regular and well-defined, and Dick liked the level glance of her clear, blue eyes. He thought they rested on him curiously for a moment. She had Kenwardine’s slender, well-balanced figure, and her movements were graceful, but Dick’s strongest impression was that she was out of place. Though perfectly at ease, she did not fit into her environment: she had a freshness that did not harmonize with cigar smoke and the smell of drink.
Clare gave him a pleasant smile when he was presented, and after speaking to one or two of the others she went to the piano when Kenwardine asked her to sing. Dick, who was sitting nearest the instrument, stooped to take a bundle of music from a cabinet she opened.
“No,” she said; “you may put those down. I’m afraid we have nothing quite so good, and perhaps it’s silly, but I’ve fallen back on our own composers since the fourth of August.”
Dick spread out the music, to display the titles.
“These fellows have been dead some time,” he argued humorously. “They’d probably disown their descendants if they’d survived until now. But here’s a Frenchman’s work. They’re on our side, and his stuff is pretty good, isn’t it?”