He put her into a chair at last, and they looked at each other: they had said no word since that first moment.
“Well,” said David Linton slowly, “we knew it might come. And we know that he died like a man, and that he never shirked. Thank God we had him, Norah. And thank God my son died a soldier, not a slacker.”
CHAPTER XIV
CARRYING ON
After that first terrible evening, during which no one had looked upon their agony, David Linton and his child took up their life again and tried to splice the broken ends as best they might. Their guests, who came down to breakfast nervously, preparing to go away at once, found them in the dining-room, haggard and worn, but pleasantly courteous; they talked of the morning’s news, of the frost that seemed commencing, of the bulbs that were sending delicate spear-heads up through the grass or the bare flower-beds. There were arrangements for the day to be made for those who cared to ride or drive: the trains to be planned for a gunner subaltern whose leave was expiring next day. Everything was quite as usual, outwardly.
“Pretty ghastly meal, what?” remarked the young gunner to a chum, as they went out on the terrace. “Rather like dancing at a funeral.”
Philip Hardress came into the morning-room, where Mr. Linton and Norah were talking.
“I don’t need to tell you how horribly sorry I am,” he faltered.
“No—thanks, Phil.”
“You—you haven’t any details?”
“No.”