“It’s awfully good of you,” he said courteously. “But I don’t believe I’m up to much yet—and I’m rather keen on getting home. If you wouldn’t mind going there direct.”
David Linton cast an appealing look at the nurse, who had accompanied her patient. She rose to the occasion promptly.
“Now, Major Hunt,” she protested. “Doctor’s orders! You promised to take all the exercise you could, and a run in the car would be the very thing for you.”
“Oh, very well.” Major Hunt’s voice was resigned. David Linton leaned towards him.
“I’ll make it as short as I can,” he said confidentially. They said good-bye, and emerged into Park Lane, where the big blue motor waited.
“Afraid you must think me horribly rude,” said the soldier, as they started. “Fact is, I’m very anxious to see my youngsters: I don’t know why, but Stella wouldn’t bring them to the hospital to see me this last week. But it’s certainly jolly to be out again.” He leaned back, enjoying the comfort of the swift car. “I suppose—” he hesitated—“it would be altogether too much trouble to go round by the flat and pick up my wife and Geoff. They would love a run.”
“Oh! Ah! The flat—yes, the flat!” said David Linton, a little wildly. “I’m afraid—that is, we should be too early. Mrs. Hunt would not expect us so soon, and she—er—she meant to be out, with all the children. Shopping. Fatted calf for the prodigal’s return, don’t you know. Awfully sorry.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said Major Hunt, looking rather amazed. “Only she doesn’t generally take them all out. But of course it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said his host, regaining his composure. “We’ll take all of you out to-morrow—Mrs. Hunt and the three youngsters as well as yourself. The car will hold all.”
Major Hunt thanked him, rather wearily. They sped on, leaving the outskirts of London behind them. Up and down long, suburban roads, beyond the trail of motor-’buses, until the open country gleamed before them. The soldier took a long breath of the sweet air.