I had been folding and fingering the brown envelope as if it had been a scrap of waste paper.
‘It is probably from Mrs. Watkins about the victoria,’ I said, feeling its profound irrelevance. ‘I wired an offer to her in Bombay. However’—and I read the telegram, the little solving telegram from Army Headquarters. I turned my back on her to read it again, and then I replaced it very carefully and put it in my pocket. It was a moment to take hold of with both hands, crying on all one’s gods for steadiness.
‘How white you look!’ said Mrs. Harbottle, with concern. ‘Not bad news?’
‘On the contrary, excellent news. Judy, will you stay to lunch?’
She looked at me, hesitating. ‘Won’t it seem rather a compromise on your part? When you ought to be rousing the city—’
‘I don’t intend to rouse the city,’ I said.
‘I have given you the chance.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, grimly, ‘but the only real favour you can do me is to stay to lunch.’ It was then just on one.
‘I’ll stay,’ she said, ‘if you will promise not to make any sort of effort. I shouldn’t mind, but it would distress you.’
‘I promise absolutely,’ I said, and ironical joy rose up in me, and the telegram burned in my pocket.