"People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny——"
"A lot more, my dear." Mrs. Compton's manner was that of a rather over-excited school-girl. She ate salted almonds vivaciously and threw one at Tristram, who had stumbled to a chair and sat there with his face between his hands. "You look like a drowned rat, Hermit—not a bit lovable. Where's Anne?"
He glanced up with bloodshot eyes.
"I—think she's dead," he said, hoarsely. "She died alone in Heerut. Sigrid has gone with Barclay. It was his offer—you understand? I shouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her. She and Anne—they thought of you—they neither of them funked."
They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the sweetmeats.
"Mrs. Brabazone—for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire story of yours——"
"It's about a miner," Mrs. Brabazone began jerkily. "You know how horribly dirty they are. And one day he came home—he was very ill, you know, and his wife said——"
She laboured on with quivering lips. They listened attentively. A sound of shouting came from the barracks not a quarter of a mile distant. Tristram and Mrs. Compton exchanged glances.
"They're working up to concert-pitch——"
* * * * *