XXXI
A thunderbolt struck the house in Sloane Street at half past eight one morning. It came, as other bolts had fallen upon men’s and women’s hearts during the time of the Great War, in a little pink envelope. This one was addressed to Bertram Pollard, and it came from Dublin.
Dennis condemned to death execution Wednesday. Implore father’s influence. Susan.
Bertram was sitting at breakfast opposite her father, who was reading The Morning Post as usual at this meal. His mother was pouring out coffee, and was aware instantly of his sudden indrawing of breath.
“Oh, Bertram!” she said, in a low voice. “Is it bad news?”
She slopped some coffee from the pot over the edge of a cup.
He was tempted to lie to her and say “Nothing much! A business matter,” but before the words left his lips he knew that honesty was best. She had seen his look of dismay, if he prevaricated, she would guess that the news was worse than this, though this was bad.
“It’s not good,” he said. “It’s about Susan’s husband.”
“That young scoundrel!” said his father, glancing over the top of his paper; “what infamy is he mixed up in now?”
Bertram read out the telegram, and saw his mother’s face change to a new tone of pallor, and the look of anguish in her eyes for Susan.