“Quite so!” said Alban, associating himself with his sister’s protest in a somewhat pompous manner.
Bertram felt a sudden warmth in his blood creeping up the back of his neck. He was not annoyed with Joyce, because he could understand her sense of tragedy about the old house. He was not angry with her, though her words hurt him hideously, after his thoughts about her beauty and the chance of re-capturing her love. But he had no use for that “Quite so!” of his brother-in-law.
“I fancy I did my job pretty well in the war,” he said quietly. “If England ever needs me again . . .”
He checked himself. What was the good of arguing? Joyce and Alban were both on edge because of this family crisis. Anyhow, he would be an idiot to proclaim his love for England. It might be taken for granted after his service.
“Oh, bother all that!” cried Joyce.
She dismissed the need of argument on that score by another attack on her brother.
“I’m not going to let this business end in mere talk, Alban! If there’s any chance of saving Holme Ottery—”
Alban’s temper mastered him for a moment, and he interrupted his sister harshly.
“Haven’t I told you there’s no earthly chance? What’s the good of playing about with unrealities? Facts are facts. Figures are figures.”
“Yes, and your four thousand belong to the facts and the figures,” answered Joyce, just as angrily. “If you gave up gambling and racing, you could put some back into the family pot.”