“What is it, Garth?” Instinctively Miles slipped into the more familiar appellation.
Trent looked at him blankly. It seemed as though he had not heard the question, or, at any rate, had not taken in its meaning.
“What did you say?” he muttered, his brows contracting painfully.
Miles slung the various packages with which he was burdened on to the ground, and leaned up leisurely against the gatepost. It was characteristic of him that, although the day was never long enough for the work he crowded into it, he could always find time to give a helping hand to a pal with his back against the wall.
“Out with it, man!” he said. “What's up?”
Slowly recognition came back in the other's eyes.
“What I might have anticipated,” he answered, at last, in a curious flat voice, devoid of expression. “I've sunk a degree or two lower in Sara's estimation since the war broke out.”
Miles regarded him quietly for a moment, a queer, half-humorous glint in his eyes.
“I suppose she doesn't know you've half-beggared yourself, helping on the financial side?”
“A man could hardly do less, could he?” he returned awkwardly. “But if she did know—which she doesn't—it would make no earthly difference.”