“Who bullies you into getting up, may I ask?” demanded Miss de Lisle.
“I used to be bullied by a gentleman called Wilkes, in the grey days when I was a subaltern,” said Jim sadly. “Now, alas, I am a responsible and dignified person, and I have to set an example.” He sighed. “It’s awful to be a captain!”
“It’s so extraordinary,” said his sister, “that I never get used to it.”
“But you never had any respect for age,” said Jim, removing her tray and putting a pillow on her head. “Every one finished? then I’ll clear away the wreck and go and dress.” He piled the three trays on top of each other and goose-stepped from the room solemnly—his long legs in pyjamas, under a military great coat, ending a curious effect to the spectacle. Miss de Lisle and Norah laughed helplessly.
“And a captain!” said the cook-lady, wiping her eyes. “Now I really must run, or there will be no breakfast in this house.”
Breakfast was a movable feast in the Home for Tired People, who wandered in and out just as they felt inclined. Hot dishes sat on a hot-water plate and a little aluminium-topped table; such matters as ham and brawn lurked on a sideboard; and Allenby came in from time to time to replenish tea and coffee. Norah and her father rarely encountered any one but Phil Hardress at this meal, since theirs was generally over long before most of their guests had decided to get up. On this morning, however, every one was equally late, and food did not seem to matter; the table was “snowed under” with masses of letters and Christmas parcels, and as every one opened these and talked all at once, mingling greetings with exclamations over the contents of the packages, Miss de Lisle’s efforts had been in vain.
“I pitied your post-lady,” said Mrs. Aikman, the wife of a wounded colonel. “She staggered to the door under an enormous mail-bag, looking as though Christmas were anything but merry. However, I saw her departing, after an interval, with quite a sprightly step.”
“Allenby had orders to look after her,” Norah said, smiling. “Poor soul—she begins her round at some unearthly hour and she’s hungry and tired by the time she gets here.”
“One of the remarkable things about this country of yours,” said Mr. Linton, “is the way you have continued to deliver parcels and letters as though there were no war. Strange females or gaunt children bring them to one’s door, but the main point is that they do come. In Australia, even without a war, the post-office scorns to deliver a parcel; if any one is rash enough to send you one the post-office puts it in a cupboard and sends you a cold postcard to tell you to come and take it away. If you don’t come soon, they send you a threatening card.”
“And if you don’t obey that?”