She kept her word. She indulged her undoubted gifts for being “nice” to people in a series of variations, the theme of which was always the same—the development of the Colonel’s intimacy with Mrs. Gervase. Mrs. Loring’s methods were old enough to me—I knew them by heart; but to the maiden soul of the Colonel they came as a revelation of female unselfishness.
“Do you know, Butterfield,” he said to me one evening, “I’m beginning to think Mrs. Chatterton is no end of a fine woman, by Gad! She’s loyal, by Gad! The way she stands by that little friend of hers, Mrs. Gervase—you know her”—(I nodded)—“why, it’s just what a man would do!”
“Then you have met Mrs. Gervase, Coke?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “the other evening. She’s infernally shy, by Gad! Quiet, you know. That’s what I like about an Englishwoman here. Now, Powell’s wife, and the regimental women——”
“Exactly; were not shy. And what do you think of Mrs. Gervase?”
“Well, you know,”—the little man looked at me with a comical air of worldly knowledge that was a joy to see,—“she was awfully quiet, Butterfield—only looked at you; but I brought her out, by Gad! And she’s intelligent, too, when you once get her talking.”
“You succeeded in making her talk, then?” I asked with an irony that was for my private satisfaction, and meant nothing to him.
“Yes,” he replied, “after I’d—played her a bit, you know. And that woman, Butterfield, displayed an intelligence, by Gad, on transport, and commissariat, and mobilisation that was simply little short of marvellous! Marvellous, by Gad!”
“She’s a clever woman, I believe,” I answered. “She asked you how often you had been wounded, I suppose?”
“She did ask me that,” he admitted; “but women haven’t got to hear about that kind of thing, you know, Butterfield. You’ve got to keep ’em at arm’s length in such matters—kind of——”