As a matter of fact, no one did think this. That he did not speak of Eweretta only made his friends and associates admire the stoic heroism which hid a mortal wound. So few wounds are mortal!
Philip entered the wicket gate which enclosed his estate, as he called it; noted that the carnations smelt deliciously, and that his stable was nearly completed; then went into his bungalow, pausing at the kitchen door, where Davis was “clearing-up” prior to going to bed.
Davis made a point of clearing up at night, ready for the morning. He was late to-night, for his master had allowed him to go to the Ridge Farm, where the Cinque Ports Territorials were camping.
“Had a good time, Davis?” inquired Philip cheerfully.
Davis saluted.
“Yes, sir, I had a good look round,” he said.
“Visited the canteen, I suppose?” said Philip.
“Yes, sir, I looked in and sampled the beer. It was like old times to be in the camp, and see the rows of officers’ baths outside their tents, and to smell the joints cooking. Going to work all night, sir?”
“Yes, I am in a vein now,” answered Philip. “You have remembered the coffee, my nose tells me.”
“Yes, sir.”