“Such a rum thing to do! What do you think we ought to do about it, mater?”
He saw his mother lean forward; the waves of silver hair seemed to enshrine the beautiful lines of her drawn face; her voice came whispering:
“Hadn’t we better leave it, Giles?... Perhaps he really did die for England?”
The young man glanced at her quickly. He saw her aged and broken by the war. He thought of his brother.... Then he caught sight of his own face in the mirror, lean, youthful, vigorous. The old tag flashed through his mind:
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
He thrust away that emotional expression, and in the manner of his kind stayed silent, rigid, with his back to the fire. And suddenly he said:
“I say, mater, won’t you play me something? Chopin, or one of those Russian Johnnies you play so rippingly?”