She followed him to the window, and put her hand on his shoulder, with a caressing touch, which surprised him. It was some time since she’d done that.
“Bertram, I’m not playing the spiteful cat. You know it’s not my style of play. I’m not flinging anything in your face, or any rot of that kind. But you know you want a good job. You’ve said so a hundred times! Now General Bellasis is ready to offer you one. Why get huffed?”
He was melted by her words, by the old comradely tone of them, by her hand on his shoulder. If she only knew how a touch from her could kill his temper!
“Give my book a chance,” he said. “I believe I can do something at the writing game. Meanwhile, if Bellasis has anything to offer, I’ll think of it, seriously. What sort of a job, do you think?”
“Organising,” she told him, and he liked the word. “Something to do with the home defence of England—in case of trouble.”
“Trouble?” He looked at her vaguely.
“The strike.”
“Oh, Lord!”
“Why not?”
He didn’t tell her why not, and indeed, she couldn’t wait to hear why not, for some friends called with a car to take her to Brighton for lunch and tea. But his mind went quickly to recent conversations with some of the people whom Joyce didn’t know and didn’t care to know—Bill Huggett, down in Lambeth, Janet Welford, Luke Christy, Nat Verney, the miners’ leader, Lawless, the economist, Bernard Hall, editor of The New World. They also had been talking about the coming strike, which they called a lock-out, and had seriously disturbed his mind on the subject.