Hilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and
stared into it. The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs.
Lessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view.
For one thing, Hilda was so sensible….
"What is it?" she asked again. "Your father saw nothing—men don't; but you can't hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you. Is Peter in trouble?"
Hilda shook her head. Then she said: "Well, at least, mother, not that sort of trouble. I told father truly; he's been picked for special service."
"Well, then, what is it?" Mrs. Lessing was a trifle impatient.
"Mother," said Hilda, "I've known that he has not been happy ever since his arrival in France, but I've never properly understood why. Peter is queer in some ways, you know. You remember that sermon of his? He won't be content with things; he's always worrying. And now he writes dreadfully. He says…" She hesitated. Then, suddenly, she pulled out the letter. "Listen, mother," she said, and read what Peter had written in the club until the end. "'I am going to eat and drink with publicans and sinners; maybe I shall find my Master still there.'"
If Langton could have seen Mrs. Lessing he would have smiled that cynical smile of his with much satisfaction. She was frankly horrified—rendered, in fact, almost speechless.
"Hilda!" she exclaimed. "What a thing to write to you! But what does he mean? Has he forgotten that he is a clergyman? Why, it's positively blasphemous! He is speaking of Christ, I suppose. My poor girl, he must be mad. Surely you see that, dear."
Hilda stared on into the fire, and made no reply. Her mother hardly needed one, "Has he met another woman, Hilda?" she demanded.
"I don't know; he doesn't say so," said Hilda miserably. "But anyhow, I don't see that that matters."
"Not matter, girl! Are you mad too? He is your fiancé, isn't he? Really,
I think I must speak to your father."