The doctors seemed to think it might be. Still it had got the turn now. It was beginning to mend.
“I’ve been wondering,” said the Mayor, “whether it mightn’t be possible to get you transferred to munitions. Johnson and Hartley are short o’ foremen. Pound a day to begin with. What do you say, my boy?”
The Corporal gazed into the fire without saying anything.
Said the Mayor, half apologetically, “You’re not so young as you were, you see. Forty-three, they tell me, is a bit long in the tooth for the trenches. And you’ve done your bit. Why not give some o’ the younger ones a chance?”
In silence the Corporal went on gazing into the fire.
“Anyhow it might be worth thinking over.”
The Corporal removed the cigar from his mouth and appeared laconically to agree that it might be worth thinking over. But the suggestion didn’t seem to fire him.
A deeper silence followed and then said the Mayor with a certain gruff abruptness which was a partial return to the old manner, “I’m thinking it’ll be a good thing for Melia to quit Love Lane. She’s not done so bad with the business lately, but it might be wise to sell it now. And she’ll be none the worse for a rest in country air. Happen I told you that back in the spring I bought that cottage up at Dibley that that artist chap—I forget his name for the moment—used to come and paint in. Rare situation—sandstone foundation—highest point in the county—see for miles from his studio at the end o’ the garden. Don’t quite know why I bought it except that it was going cheap. An old property—nobody seemed to fancy it—but the freehold is not going to get less in value if I’m a judge o’ such matters and the place is in pretty good condition. Suppose, my boy, you and Melia moved in there? Save me a caretaker, and some o’ the finest air in Europe comes down the valley of the Sharrow.”
The heart of the Corporal leaped at these amazing words, but his eyes were still fixed upon the fire.