"I hope your correspondents report favourably on me," said Eric lightly. "Do you know many of my officers?"
"Not many—now. Let me see." Marjorie decided swiftly not to be evasive, but to reply to Eric's naïve inquisitiveness as naturally as possible. "Major Laing—I have met him once or twice. Is he still with you?"
"'Old Leathery'? Yes. He goes on for ever. Who else?"
"One hardly likes to ask these days, for fear—you know?"
"Yes, I know. But we've been lucky lately. We are in a quiet sector of the line. We have had no officer casualties for two months. Wait while I touch wood!" He tapped the mahogany dashboard. "Do you know Kilbride, my adjutant?"
"I don't think so."
"He's a stout fellow. Let me see. Do you know young Birnie? He comes from your part of the world, and mine."
"Yes, I know him," said Marjorie. "Is he quite well?" For the life of her she could not help asking.
"Yes, he's all right." Eric gave Marjorie a sudden sidelong glance. He possessed the curiosity of a child, and not a little of a child's jealousy. He had certain things in mind—rumours, nods, innuendoes, elephantine jests in the mess. Marjorie's eyes were fixed steadily upon the road ahead of her, and her face expressed nothing more than polite interest. But if Eric had been a really observant person—a woman, for instance—he would have noticed that her hands were gripping the steering-wheel until the nails were white.
"Whom else do you know?" he continued. "Garry—Balfour—Carruthers—little Cowie?"