“Dacre, your mother will miss Gwen more than any of us think, you have no idea how upsetting a wedding is, you might come in very useful just now. Won’t the regiment survive if you stay down for a few days?”
Dacre wriggled on his seat.
“Mrs. Fellowes, I have to go back, it is absolutely imperative.”
She laughed. “So it seems by the look of you!”
“Look at that big fellow!” she thought, “who fears neither man, death, nor devil, nor God much to speak of, routed by one flash of feeling from an unexpected quarter. The creatures can’t stand the unexpected at all, they are intrinsically conventional! If that fool had a glimmer of sense in him, he would have given the poor little woman a hug, and have let her have a comfortable easy howl for once in her life. I suppose she is doing problems with the old fossil in the library instead.”
Dacre felt his size frightfully, and began to contrast it mentally with the Sevres cup in his hand. He set it down, and towering huge above Mrs. Fellowes, delivered himself of another solemn asseveration as to the impossibility of staying one day longer.
“My dear boy, I am quite convinced,” she said, “if you did, your country must infallibly burst up.”
“Mrs. Fellowes, that isn’t fair!”
“No more it is! Sit down, Dacre, I have to shout to make my voice reach you up there, and yours comes down on me like a thousand bricks. What do you want me to do?”
He gave a sigh of relief and settled down comfortably.