Dalroy had been told at Dover to report at once to the War Office, as he carried much valuable information in his head and Von Halwig’s well-filled note-book in his pocket. He hung back while the embracing was in progress. Then Irene introduced him to her family.
“You’ll dine with us, Arthur,” she said simply. “I’ll not tell them a word of our adventures till you are present.”
“You could have heard a pin drop,” was the excited comment of the flapper sister when endeavouring subsequently to thrill another girl with the sensation created by Irene’s quiet words. Literally, this trope was not accurate, because the station was noisier than usual. Figuratively, it met the case exactly.
Lady Glastonbury, a gray-haired woman with wise eyes, promptly emulated the action of the British army during the retreat from Mons, and “saved the situation.”
“Of course you’ll stay with us, too, Captain Dalroy,” she said with pleasant insistence. “Like Irene, you must have lost everything, and need time to refit.”
Dalroy murmured some platitude, lifted his hat, and only regained his composure after two narrow escapes from being run over by taxis while crossing Northumberland Avenue.
A newsboy tore past, shouting in the vernacular, “Great Stand by Sir John French.”
Dalroy was reminded of Smithy, and Shiney, and Corporal Bates. He saw again Jan Maertz waving a farewell from the quai at Ostend. He wondered how old Joos was faring, and Léontine, and Monsieur Pochard, and the curé of Verviers.
Another boy scampered by. He carried a contents bill. Heavy black type announced that the British were “holding” Von Kluck on the Marne. Dalroy’s eyes kindled. His work lay there. When the soldier’s task was ended he would come back to Irene.