“You know, Butterfield, a Johnny must have a darned useful brain-box on him to do that—that sort of thing. It made me feel no end queer. There’s an awful lot in it, don’t you think?”
Poor Bassishaw thought he understood the music, but it was the opera-glasses that had fetched him. He went on:
“It’s darned funny that a chap should do that instead of drill and depôt work, you know, Butterfield. You know, I always thought too confounded much of curves and trajectory, and all that stuff. I always thought a chap was a bit of a muff who fooled with music and verses and all that, do you know.”
The confession was not without a touch of the pathetic, but I maintained a diplomatic silence.
After a thoughtful pause he continued:
“Do you think, Rollo—do you think—would—would Carrie ever do anything of that sort?—I—I—mean, something that makes a chap feel—oh, hang it, you know what I mean.”
What could I say? My little sister was looking very miserable—abstract truth is all very well—I temporised.
“Well, Bassishaw, it can’t be done without trying. You’ve got to stick at it. The continual enfantement——”
“I know,” he interrupted, “sort of keep it up steady, like these gunnery Johnnies. It must be darned hard. Do you know, Butterfield,” he said, dropping his voice suddenly, “Carrie and I—we’ve had a kind of—nothing, you know—but—a bit of a split.”
“You surprise me,” I replied.