I can not say that I attended diligently to Mr. Chichele’s socks, but the part corresponding was freely assigned me. After his people went I saw him often. He pretended to find qualities in my tea, implied that he found them in my talk. As a matter of fact it was my inquiring attitude that he loved, the knowledge that there was no detail that he could give me about himself, his impressions and experiences, that was unlikely to interest me. I would not for the world imply that he was egotistical or complacent, absolutely the reverse, but he possessed an articulate soul which found its happiness in expression, and I liked to listen. I feel that these are complicated words to explain a very simple relation, and I pause to wonder what is left to me if I wished to describe his commerce with Mrs. Harbottle. Luckily there is an alternative; one needn’t do it. I wish I had somewhere on paper Judy’s own account of it at this period, however. It is a thing she would have enjoyed writing and more enjoyed communicating, at this period.
There was a grave reticence in his talk about her which amused me in the beginning. Mrs. Harbottle had been for ten years important enough to us all, but her serious significance, the light and the beauty in her, had plainly been reserved for the discovery of this sensitive and intelligent person not very long from Sandhurst and exactly twenty-six. I was barely allowed a familiar reference, and anything approaching a flippancy was met with penetrating silence. I was almost rebuked for lightly suggesting that she must occasionally find herself bored in Peshawur.
‘I think not anywhere,’ said Mr. Chichele; ‘Mrs. Harbottle is one of the few people who sound the privilege of living.’
This to me, who had counted Mrs. Harbottle’s yawns on so many occasions! It became presently necessary to be careful, tactful, in one’s implications about Mrs. Harbottle, and to recognize a certain distinction in the fact that one was the only person with whom Mr. Chichele discussed her at all.
The day came when we talked of Robert; it was bound to come in the progress of any understanding and affectionate colloquy which had his wife for inspiration. I was familiar, of course, with Somers’s opinion that the Colonel was an awfully good sort; that had been among the preliminaries and become understood as the base of all references. And I liked Robert Harbottle very well myself. When his adjutant called him a born leader of men, however, I felt compelled to look at the statement consideringly.
‘In a tight place,’ I said—dear me, what expressions had the freedom of our little frontier drawing-rooms!—‘I would as soon depend on him as on anybody. But as for leadership—’
‘He is such a good fellow that nobody here does justice to his soldierly qualities,’ said Mr. Chichele, ‘except Mrs. Harbottle.’
‘Has she been telling you about them?’ I inquired.
‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘she told me about the Mulla Nulla affair. She is rather proud of that. Any woman would be.’
‘Poor dear Judy!’ I mused.