“What a dreadful war this is!” said the old lady. “Have you been at the front?”
“Yes.”
“To think of the poor young girls who'll never have husbands! I'm sure I think it's dreadful.”
“Yes,” said Fort; “it's dreadful—” And then a voice from the doorway said:
“Did you want Doctor and Mrs. Laird, sir? East Bungalow their address is; it's a little way out on the North Road. Anyone will tell you.”
With a sigh of relief Fort looked gratefully at the old lady who had called Noel as pretty as life. “Good afternoon, ma'am.”
“Good afternoon.” The needles clicked, and little movements occurred at the corners of her mouth. Fort went out. He could not find a vehicle, and was a long time walking. The Bungalow was ugly, of yellow brick pointed with red. It lay about two-thirds up between the main road and cliffs, and had a rock-garden and a glaring, brand-new look, in the afternoon sunlight. He opened the gate, uttering one of those prayers which come so glibly from unbelievers when they want anything. A baby's crying answered it, and he thought with ecstasy: 'Heaven, she is here!' Passing the rock-garden he could see a lawn at the back of the house and a perambulator out there under a holm-oak tree, and Noel—surely Noel herself! Hardening his heart, he went forward. In a lilac sunbonnet she was bending over the perambulator. He trod softly on the grass, and was quite close before she heard him. He had prepared no words, but just held out his hand. The baby, interested in the shadow failing across its pram, ceased crying. Noel took his hand. Under the sunbonnet, which hid her hair, she seemed older and paler, as if she felt the heat. He had no feeling that she was glad to see him.
“How do you do? Have you seen Gratian; she ought to be in.”
“I didn't come to see her; I came to see you.”
Noel turned to the baby.