“Why? What are they? I don’t understand. And the Artists’ Rifles?”
“I’ve got my transfer from them. I’ve joined for the war.”
“The war? Do you mean——?”
She came up to him, looking suddenly intent.
“Do you mean you have volunteered for active service in South Africa?”
“Yes.”
“Without consulting me?”
Her whole face reddened, almost as it had reddened when she spoke to him about the death of her mother.
“Yes. I haven’t signed on yet, but the doctor has passed me. I’m to be sworn in at the Guildhall on the fourth, I believe. We shall sail very soon, almost directly, I suppose. They want men out there.”
He did not know how bruskly he spoke; he was feeling too much to know.