Mrs. Stuckhey drew forth and unfolded the missive, and her audience duly composed themselves. Even Mrs. Woolridge was conscious of a certain unwilling interest which she endeavoured to disguise by an attitude of indifference—head thrown back, nose screwed up, hands planted negligently on hips.
“My dear Mother,” read Mrs. Stuckhey, “It is with the greatest of pleasure that I write these few lines hoping you are well as it leaves me at present.”
This was merely the formula by which Soldier Joe, who was a person of some education, considered it necessary to inaugurate his letters; and the information which it ostensibly conveyed was not intended to be taken literally, as was proved by the fact that on one occasion this conventional statement had been immediately followed by the announcement that he was wounded and in hospital.
“I have got Back to the front Again and we are going to make another start for Ladysmith before long.”
“Why, I thought they was close to Ladysmith by now,” interrupted the postman. “The papers said yesterday they was but eight mile away.”
“Ah, you can’t trust them papers,” said Mrs. Blanchard in a tone of conviction. “They do exaggerate, them papers; they just prints a lot o’ lies in ’em to make ’em sell.”
“Very like your son have made a mistake,” observed Mrs. Woolridge loftily. “Joe, he’s but young.”
“Well, it stands to reason as them that’s on the spot must know better what’s goin’ on nor them that’s miles an’ miles away,” retorted Mrs. Stuckhey with some heat. “This here noos comes direct.”
It did not seem to occur to any one that the tidings in question were three weeks old.
She fell to the reading of her letter again, spelling out the words slowly, and running the sentences one into another; indeed it might have been a little difficult to do otherwise, for Joe used capital letters impartially, and absolutely disdained stops.