“You’re two horrible boys!” said their hostess, laughing. “And my lovely fat Michael!—he’s getting so corpulent he can hardly waddle. He and the puppy are really very like each other; both of them find it easier to roll than to run.” She cast an inquiring eye round the room: “Some more tea, Norah?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hunt.” Norah’s voice sounded strange in her own ears. She wanted to get away from the room, and the light-hearted chatter . . . to make sure, though she was sure already. The guns of France seemed to sound very near her.
The party broke up after a while. Jim and Wally lingered behind the others.
“Will you and the Major come over this evening, Mrs. Hunt? We’re off to-morrow.”
“Oh—I’m sorry.” Mrs. Hunt’s face fell. “Poor Norah!”
“Norah will keep smiling,” said Jim. “But I’m jolly glad you’re so near her, Mrs. Hunt. You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you? I’d be awfully obliged if you would.”
“You may be very sure I will,” she said. “And there will be a tremendous welcome whenever you get leave.”
“We won’t lose any time in coming for it,” Jim said. “Blighty means more than ever it did, now that we’ve got a real home. Then you’ll come to-night?”
“Of course we will.” She watched them stride off into the shrubbery, and choked back a sigh.
Norah came back to them through the trees.