They had turned across Hyde Park, where a big company of girl guides was drilling, watched by a crowd of curious on-lookers. Across a belt of grass some boy scouts were performing similar evolutions, marching with all the extra polish and swagger they could command, just to show the guides that girls were all very well in their way, but that no one with skirts could really hope to do credit to a uniform. Cecilia paused to watch them.
“Thank goodness, the children can come and drill in the park again!” she said. “I hated to come here before the armistice—soldiers, soldiers, drilling everywhere, and guns and searchlight fixings. Whenever I saw a squad drilling it made me think of you, and of course I felt sure you'd be killed!”
“I do like people who look on the bright side of life!” said Bob laughing. “And whenever you saw an aeroplane I suppose you made sure I was crashing somewhere?”
“Certainly I did,” said his sister with dignity.
“Women are queer things,” Bob remarked. “If you had these unpleasant beliefs, how did you manage to write as cheerfully as you did? Your letters were a scream—I used to read bits of 'em out to the fellows.”
“You had no business to do any such thing,” said Cecilia, blushing.
“Well, I did, anyhow. They used to make 'em yell. How did you manage them?”
“Well, it was no good assuring you you'd be killed,” said Cecilia practically. “I thought it was more sensible to try to make you laugh.”
“You certainly did that,” said Bob. “I fancied from your letters that life with the she-dragon was one huge joke, and that Papa was nice and companionable, and the kids, sweet little darlings who ate from your hand. And all the time you were just the poor old toad under the harrow!”
“I'm not a toad!” rejoined his sister indignantly. “Don't you think you could find pleasanter things to compare me to?”