"Oh—quite decent, you know; but mighty little to eat. I believe they put every one on low diet as soon as they get there just to keep them humble and quiet."
"Well, your mother's just dying to feed you up, so you'll get awfully fat soon. How's the hand?"
The Boy stretched out his left arm and showed a suspiciously inert-looking brown glove. "Only three fingers gone and some bits missing. It's stopped my golf all right, though."
"But you'll still be able to hunt and shoot and you'll work up some sort of a golf handicap again when you're used to it. What was the battle like, Boy?"
"Oh—just the usual sort of destroyer scrap. We saw them first in our packet, and so we got most of it. It was a good scrap, though."
"Will you be able to go to sea again, or will they——?"
The Boy flushed and leaned back. "Of course I will—I've got a hand and a half, and they can't stick me in a shore job when I've got that much." The lady put a hand swiftly out and rested it on the padded brown glove. "Of course they can't. Sorry, Boy. I never thought they would, you know." The Boy instantly brought his right hand across, and, catching the sympathetic hand that lay on his glove, kissed it with decision. He then leaned back again to the musty padding of the cab, rather shocked at his own temerity. The lady, however, showed no signs of confusion at all.
"How long sick leave did they give you? Do you have to go back to the hospital, or do you just report at the Admiralty?"
"I don't know,—look here, when are we going to be engaged?"
"When we're old enough, Boy—if you're good. Are you going to be?"