“I am afraid,” she said. “You put upon me a responsibility. Father says people ought to be careful of giving advice because so often it is taken.”
“I shall at least try to follow your advice, Joyce.”
“What is my advice?” she asked with almost passion. “What is it worth—nothing. I am only an echo. You asked me the other day if you ought to leave the army. I have lain awake trying to answer that question.”
It was a dangerous admission, and he leapt eagerly upon it.
“Have you? Lain awake, eh?” His voice thrilled. “That was sweet of you.”
Her tone became normal—practical. She held herself well in hand, smiling faintly.
“I repeat I am an echo. I remember what others say, and what I have read. Work will save you and yours, Lionel, undivided energies concentrated upon problems which are far beyond me. There has been one steadfast worker upon the Pomfret property—Fishpingle.”
“I know. He’s amazing.”
“Your father,” she continued, treading delicately, “has kept the traditions of his order. He has not neglected county and parish duties. Father gives him unstinted credit for that. He has worked very faithfully for others, but——”
“But——”