"You may be right, Alfie, about Mr. Saint—I don't like him. I feel, someway, that he will do as you say, sneak in behind your back, and rob you of what you have worked so hard for. Could you stand that?"
"'Twould be a rare twister, Fancy. But the men are wanted."
He spoke with no fire, no enthusiasm. The men were wanted. That, apparently, had become an obsession. Dared she temporise any further? Was this the opportunity, never to be presented again, of which Mr. Hamlin had spoken?
"If you feel like that, Alfie, you must go. I—I couldn't lift a finger to hold you back. I am proud," her voice faltered, "to belong to such a man."
The victory was won.
Reaction followed quickly. They clung to each other. Fancy cried, knowing that tears would lighten her heart. Alfred kissed them away. He set himself, resolutely, the task of cheering her up. The war might be over before he was ready to serve in France. William Saint had his own business. One that exacted constant attention. No doubt a trusty fellow could be found to drive the 'bus.
At tea, no trace of the storm could be discerned on their smiling faces.
But Mrs. Yellam knew.