Denis nodded. "He did. And more. He was askin' me, among other things, what percentage of our civilian flyers would volunteer in case of a war."
"Oh! What did you say?"
"I said all, of course—every man jack of 'em who wasn't needed as an instructor at home."
"You'd go yourself?"
"Rather so! What do you take me for? I should join up with the R.F.C. at once. Oh, it's coming, and they know it's coming; that's been obvious ever since Agadir. The only question is, when. I hope I shan't smash myself first. I'd be sorry to be out of the fun."
He lapsed into silence, leaning back in the big chair which Lettice kept on purpose for him, his long legs extended half across the hearth. How many months was it since he had last filled that place? Lettice had not so much as seen him since the Olympia day; but neither by word nor look did she remind him of the gap. She was an adept at taking things for granted. It was enough to see him sitting there, the same old Denis, talking in the same old way. And yet, not quite the same. Even in his silence there was a new quality. He had matured; he had lived through the wreck of an ideal, and built up his faith again, steady and sure, upon a rock.
Lettice put away her papers with delicate neatness, and sat down in a low chair with her needlework—not a green dragon this time, but a pair of combinations, which she darned serenely under the masculine eye. Denis had a nice mind, he would never see. Now if it had been a certain other person—Lettice made a graceful figure, soft brown hair and hazel eyes, long throat and little head, slight drooping shoulders and slim waist, set off by the soft gray-blue silk of her dress. She was fond of that peculiarly soft and feminine fabric known to dressmakers as crêpe de Chine. She could not spend much on her clothes, but she chose and wore them with that French fineness and perfection of detail which she, in common with her sisters, had learned from their foreign upbringing.
"Well, I didn't come here to talk about German invasions," said Denis, rousing himself. "The fact is, I'm rather badly worried about Gardiner, Lettice. I didn't like that last piece of news at all. Did you?"
"You've not heard anything fresh?" asked Lettice quickly, her work dropping in her lap.
"Not a syllable; and can't till June. That's the worst of it; it's such a deadly long time. I'd half thought of running down there and lookin' up little Scott—he's quite a decent little chap, and he'd know. But I suppose it wouldn't do."