Taking her by the arm, he led her to the front of the car, where, clearly visible herself, she would see little if aught of the shambles in rear.
Corporal Bates hurried up.
“Her ladyship all right, sir?” he inquired briskly.
“Yes,” replied Dalroy, conscious of a slight tremulousness in the arm he was holding.
Corporal Bates, though in all probability he had never even heard of Bacon’s somewhat trite aphorism, was essentially an “exact” man. He never erred as to distinctions of rank or title. His salute was the pride of the Buffs. Blithely regardless of the fact that not more than five minutes earlier Captain Dalroy had confessed himself ignorant of Lady Irene Beresford’s actual social status, he alluded to her “correctly.”
“I think, sir,” he rattled on, “that we ought to be moving. It’s quite dark now, an’ we have our route marked out.”
“How?”
“We’ve been directed by a priest, sir. The Belgian priests have done us a treat. In every village they showed us the safest roads. Even when they couldn’t make us understand their lingo they could always pencil a map.”
“I see. Do you follow the road to Oosterzeele?”