The new casements fitted very well indeed.
“All the same,”—the deep voice was very much that of the man of affairs—“I expect you get a bit of draught here when the wind blows from the northeast.”
The draught was nothing to speak of, he was assured.
“Any complaints? Heating apparatus all right? Ventilators working properly?”
There were no complaints to make of any kind.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the Mayor. “You can leave me here alone a few minutes with Corporal Hollis—if he’s well enough to talk to me.”
The Commandant retired, closing the door after her, and the Mayor slowly approached the bed.
“How are you, Bill?” It was a tone of simple, hearty kindness.
Before the occupant of the bed could answer the question, Josiah, coming round the corner of the screen, was taken aback by the sight of his eldest daughter. He was not prepared for her, yet he was quite equal to the situation. “Hulloa, Melia”—it was a father’s cordiality. “How are you, gel? Happy Christmas to you. Happy Christmas to you both.”
For a little while he stood talking to them, easily and without constraint, while the Corporal lay in his bed saying nothing, but with his worn face softened by pain and service and the thought of others. From time to time he smiled grayly at the Mayor’s pungent humor. Even in the old days “the Mester” had always had a liberal share of that quality in which his fellow townsmen excelled. Josiah’s sense of humor was very keen, particularly when it came to assessing the shortcomings of other people; it had a breadth, a gusto, a penetration which high office seemed to amplify. His stories, comments, criticisms of those prominently before the world kept the Corporal quietly amused for some time. Finally, the Mayor looked at his watch. “I must be getting on,” he said. “I’ve got to address the War Workers’ Association at six o’clock. And at seven I’ve promised to look in at the Hearts of Oak annual soiree and concert.”