That was his answer to Bertram’s argument, and he spoke it harshly, in a court-martial manner.
Joyce moved away from her chair, and stood by the great fireplace. Bertram knew by a glint in her eyes that she was deeply emotional at that moment, but she spoke to the General quietly, with a smile.
“It’s not refused. Bertram permits himself a certain amount of hot air. Why not? But he accepts.”
“Is that so?” asked the General, looking first at Joyce and then at Bertram, with perplexity.
“That’s so, isn’t it, Bertram?”
Bertram’s eyes met Joyce’s. He saw in them a kind of entreaty, and behind that a kind of command.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I hate the idea of it.”
Joyce moved away from the fireplace. She still spoke quietly, but there was a new thrill in her voice.
“I apologise for my husband, General! But if Bertram doesn’t accept, I shan’t think much of his loyalty to me—or to England. Meanwhile, I’d better join Mother, who’s probably fuming at my absence.”
She left the room with her head held high, and a little smile about her lips, but Bertram, who knew the play of light and shadow in her face, saw that she was passionately distressed with him.