In the odd way he had, which was a part of his peculiar faculty, he seemed to feel what was passing in her mind. “I’m not thinking of what might have been. That’s no good. The time’s gone by. I’m thinking of my friend, Stanning, R.A. You see we’d arranged that if we ever had the chance we’d come here for a day’s fishing. We had a bit one day when we were up in the Line—in that canal—the Yser, I think they call it. And he said, ‘Auntie, I may be able to tell you a thing or two about drawing, but when it comes to this game the boot’s on the other leg.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s because I’ve put my heart into it while you’ve put your heart into something better.’ ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he said—he was the broadest-minded, the best read, the wisest chap I ever talked to—‘nothing is but thinking makes it so, as Hamlet, that old crackpot used to say. Whatever you happen to be doing, Auntie, the only thing that matters is whether your heart is in it.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I daresay you are right there. But it’s one thing to catch barbel. It’s another to paint Corfield Weir.’”
To Melia this seemed like philosophy. And she had no head for philosophy, although inclined to be a little proud that Bill should be able to swim in these deep waters in such distinguished company. But one thing aroused her curiosity. Why was this man of hers called Auntie?
Bill laughed good humoredly when, a little scandalized, she came to put the question. “They all call me that in C company.” His frankness was remarkable.
“But why?”
“They say I was born an old woman.”
Melia thought it was like their impertinence and did not hesitate to say so.
“Ah, you don’t know the Chaps,” Bill laughed heartily. “The Chaps is a rum crowd. They call you anything.”
“But to your face?” Melia couldn’t help resenting it and spoke with dignity. “You oughtn’t to let them, Bill.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a Corporal.”