The letter was, like its writer, kind, thoughtful, considerate; and as she read it Mrs. Otway felt a little pang of jealous pain. She wished that he had written her a letter like that, instead of a rather ridiculous postcard. Still, as she read the measured, reassuring sentences, she felt soothed and comforted. She knew that she was not reasonable, yet—yet it seemed impossible that the man who had written that letter, and the many like him who were out there, could allow themselves to be surrounded and captured—by Germans!
“He has also sent me a rather absurd postcard,” observed the old lady casually. “I say absurd because it is not dated, and because he also forgot to put the name of the place where he wrote it. It simply says that he is quite well, and that I shall hear from him as soon as he can find time to write a proper letter.”
She waited a few moments, and then went on: “Of course I felt a little upset when I realised that Alick had really gone on active service. But I know how he would have felt being left behind.”
Then, rather to her visitor’s discomfiture, Mrs. Guthrie turned the subject away from her son, and from what was going on in France. She talked determinedly of quite other things—though even then she could not help going very near the subject.
“I understand,” she exclaimed, “that Lady Bethune is giving up her garden-party to-morrow! I’m told she feels that it would be wrong to be merrymaking while some of our men and officers may be fighting and dying. But I quite disagree, and I’m sure, my dear, that you do too. Of course it is the duty of the women of England, at such a time as this, to carry on their social duties exactly as usual.”
“I can’t quite make up my mind about that,” replied her visitor slowly.
When Mrs. Otway rose to go, the old lady suddenly softened. “You’ll come again soon, won’t you?” she said eagerly. “Though I never saw two people more unlike, still, in a curious kind of way, you remind me of Alick! That must be because you and he are such friends. I suppose he wrote to you before leaving England?” She looked rather sharply out of her still bright blue eyes at the woman now standing before her.
Mrs. Otway shook her head. “No, Major Guthrie did not write to me before leaving England.”
“Ah, well, he was very busy, and my son’s the sort of man who always chooses to do his duty before he takes his pleasure. He can write quite a good letter when he takes the trouble.”
“Yes, indeed he can,” said Mrs. Otway simply, and Mrs. Guthrie smiled.