She wondered if he would laugh—it sounded so silly. But he did not.
“And damn the consequences? I know. It's rather a jolly thing to have.”
Noel shook her head. “Here's Daddy coming back!”
Fort held out his hand.
“I won't stay. Good night; and don't worry too much, will you?”
He kept her hand rather a long time, and gave it a hard squeeze.
Don't worry! What advice! Ah! if she could see Cyril just for a minute!
2
In September, 1916, Saturday still came before Sunday, in spite of the war. For Edward Pierson this Saturday had been a strenuous day, and even now, at nearly midnight, he was still conning his just-completed sermon.
A patriot of patriots, he had often a passionate longing to resign his parish, and go like his curate for a chaplain at the Front. It seemed to him that people must think his life idle and sheltered and useless. Even in times of peace he had been sensitive enough to feel the cold draughty blasts which the Church encounters in a material age. He knew that nine people out of ten looked on him as something of a parasite, with no real work in the world. And since he was nothing if not conscientious, he always worked himself to the bone.