Was that Mrs. Sarratt descending the side-lane? The sight of her recalled his thoughts instantly to the war, and to a letter he had received that morning from a brother officer just arrived in London on medical leave—the letter of a 'grouser' if ever there was one.
'They say that this week is to see another big push—the French probably in Champagne, and we south of Bethune. I know nothing first-hand, but I do know that it can only end in a few kilometres of ground, huge casualties,—and, as you were! We are not ready—we can't be ready for months. On the other hand we must keep moving—if only to kill a few Germans, and keep our own people at home in heart. I passed some of the Lanchesters on my way down—going up, as fresh as paint after three weeks' rest—what's left of them. They're sure to be in it.'
The little figure in the mauve cotton had paused at the entrance to the lane, perceiving him.
What about Sarratt? Had she heard? He hurried on to meet her, and put his question.
'There can't be any telegram yet,' she said, her pale cheeks flushing.
'But it will come to-night. Shall we go back quickly?'
They walked on rapidly. He soon found she did not want to talk of the news, and he was driven back on the weather.
'What a blessing to see the sun again I this west country damp demoralises me.'
'I think I like it!'
He laughed.
'Do you only "say that to annoy "?'