Dr. Mount came into the room. He was a short, healthy little man, dressed in country tweeds, and with the flat whiskers of an old-time squire. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Peter.
“Back from the wars? Well, you’ve had some luck. They say it’ll be more than a year before everyone’s demobbed. You look splendid, doesn’t he, Lady Alard?”
“Yes—Peter always was healthy, you know.”
“I must say he hasn’t given me much trouble. I’d be a poor man if everyone was like him. How’s the wound, Peter? I don’t suppose you even think of it now.”
“I can’t say I do—it never was much. Didn’t Stella drive you over?”
“No—there’s a lot of medicine to make up, so I left her busy in the dispensary.”
“What a useful daughter to have,” sighed Lady Alard. “She can do everything—drive the car, make up medicines——”
“Work in the garden and cook me a thundering good dinner besides!” The little doctor beamed. “I expect she’ll be over here before long, she’ll be wanting to see Peter. She’d have come today if there han’t been such a lot to do.”
Peter put down his teacup and walked over again to the window. Rose Alard and her husband exchanged another of those meaning looks which they found a useful conversational currency.