“It's a pity he cannot go into the Army—he's so keen on it,” she suggested tentatively.
A curious change came over Elisabeth's face. It seemed to Sara as though a veil had descended, from behind which the inscrutable eyes were watching her warily. But the response was given lightly enough.
“Oh, one of the family in the Service is enough. I should see so little of my Tim if he became a soldier—only an occasional 'leave.'”
“He would make a very good soldier,” said Sara. “To my mind, it's the finest profession in the world for any man.”
“Do you think so?” Elisabeth spoke coldly. “There are many risks attached to it.”
Sara experienced a revulsion of feeling; she had not expected Elisabeth to be of the fearful type of woman. Women of splendid physique and abounding vitality are rarely obsessed by craven apprehensions.
“I don't think the risks would count with Tim,” she said warmly. “He has any amount of pluck.” And then she stared at Elisabeth in amazement. A sudden haggardness had overspread the elder woman's face, the faint shell-pink that usually flushed her cheeks draining away and leaving them milk-white.
“Yes,” she replied in stifled tones. “I don't suppose Tim's a coward. But”—more lightly—“I think I am. I—don't think I care for the Army as a profession. Tim is my only child,” she added self-excusingly. “I can't let him run risks—of any kind.”
As she spoke, an odd foreboding seized hold of Sara. It was as though the secret dread of something—she could not tell what—which held the mother had communicated itself to her.
She shivered. Then, the impression fading as quickly as it had come, she spoke defiantly, as if trying to reassure herself.