“It’ll suit Bertram down to the ground,” said Joyce. “He knows how to handle men, I will say that for him!”
She was a little excited, and slipped off the arm of her oak chair, standing with her hands clasping its high back, and looking at Bertram.
“Good for you, Bertram!” said Kenneth Murless. “I’m glad for Joyce’s sake as well as yours. I can think of no better stepping stone to a sure place.”
Alban concurred.
“An admirable post. Service to the country. Good pay, not bad fun.”
Lord Ottery agreed. He thought it “Very handsome of the General.”
Joyce was watching her husband. She could read his face better than the others. She saw how first he flushed and then paled a little, while a tuck gathered his forehead into a frown. He was thinking hard, and not certain of his answer.
“Exceedingly kind of you, General,” he said, slowly. “Many thanks. But somehow, I don’t like the job.”
There was silence for a moment or two in the big dining room where many generations of Bellairs had sat at table, discussing events of history, more unfortunate than this, quarrelling, laughing, feasting, drinking.
“You don’t like the job?”