She stood by the table and looked at the date of the latest telegram. The four messages had been despatched within two days.
'Are you not,' she asked innocently, 'too late? It may be all over now.'
He glanced up at her in a curious, laughing way.
'No—I am afraid not. War in these semi-barbaric countries is like an illness in a young person. It is only half healed beneath a deceptive surface, and breaks out in a fresh place.'
Again she took up the telegrams. It seemed as if there were a fascination in the flimsy papers which she could not resist.
'This man seems to look upon it as rather a good joke. He takes the matter jovially.'
'Yes! He takes most things in that way. It is a good thing for him, you see. Brings up the circulation of his paper.'
'That,' she said quietly, 'is a very practical way of looking at war.'
Trist appeared to ignore, purposely, the slight reproach conveyed by her remark.
'War is a practical thing,' he replied. 'This is a splendid chance for me, and one I should be sorry to miss. It is not a surprise, Brenda. We all knew that it might come at any time, but I did not mention it, because the knowledge would only have been unsettling, and I did not think ... then ... that my sudden departure would have made much difference.'