He stared at her, noticing at last her drawn expression.
"You ain't got the headache, Mother?"
"No."
"Wouldn't own up to it, if you had. Something's gnawing at you."
Very gravely she told him about the young Squire. Alfred's face fell, thinking of Joyce Pomfret, and then of Fancy. What would that pretty dear be feeling, if her Alfred was on the march? The light faded from his rubicund face. Till that moment the possibility of going had never occurred to him. If England did take a hand in the mighty game, surely her Army and Fleet would suffice for all eventualities. Suddenly, he banged the table with his clenched fist, startling his mother.
"Alferd—!" she exclaimed irritably.
Alfred hastened to apologise. A confounding thought had begotten a thoughtless action. He said earnestly:
"Fancy is a oner for telling fortunes with cards."
Mrs. Yellam frowned. Cards she held to be playthings of Satan, expressly invented by him together with strong drink and bad women. Alfred continued hastily:
"A lady in Salisbury, real quality, Mother, told Fancy's fortune."