His left arm, however, was not all he lost through the war.
“That dear old ‘Camelot’ car!” he reminded Magdalen, his first visitor at the London home to which he had finally been moved—Magdalen whom he had not seen since that “hot-water bottle” night! “That dear old ‘Camelot’ car, Magdalen! I refused to sell it to Rodney West, and now some ass has stolen it from the garage, thinking maybe I’d have less use for it now. Whereas——”
“Whereas, Ivor, you’d like to say, but daren’t, to lose only one’s left arm is really more of a decoration than a loss. But you can’t pull any of that ivory stuff on Magdalen....”
Her eyes were alight at seeing him again, she was intensely proud of him—has it not been said that Magdalen was very, very English? And to whom, in all this wide world, did Ivor belong, if not to her! And she could scarcely bear to see the pain that would every now and then twist the dark young face—and set those eyebrows scowling so sulkily! She pretended not to notice, he would like that best. Her old friend Ivor! “The best ever....” And, in the way of her sympathy, she mocked him, for she knew he loved her mockery, saying that the arm he had left was an excellent arm anyway, and that the bit of coloured ribbon for which he had exchanged the other one would look very decorative beneath the pile of handkerchiefs where it would live out its glorious life. “More than ever dark and dangerous Ivor!” she cried softly. Her old friend Ivor!...
BOOK THE THIRD
THE ANTAGONISTS
CHAPTER I
1
January was clearly a significant month in the life of Ivor Pelham Marlay.