His eyes opened so wide that she checked herself.
"My dear, the war's getting on your nerves," he said significantly. "Doesn't Lady Crawleigh——?"
Barbara blamed herself bitterly for letting her voice get out of control; it was always happening....
"George, promise me you won't say you've seen me!" she begged. "I didn't tell them I was going to be in London. I know I'm disgracing you by looking like this, but, if mother saw me, she'd take me away; and I should die, if I didn't have work to do."
"I see. Well, I'm not a doctor, but you'll die remarkably soon at your present rate. D'you know what I'm going to do when we leave here?"
"Drop me at Cartier's, I hope."
"If you like. And that's handy for Berkeley Square. I'm going to your mother and I'm going to tell her what I think of your general condition."
"George, if you do that, I'll never speak to you again! And really, you know, it isn't any business of yours."
"Except that I happen to be very fond of you. And, if you get ill.... Dear Barbara, to please me, will you see your doctor before you go back to hospital?"
Barbara had so long looked on George as a kindly and comfortable bit of universal family furniture that she was startled by the unexpected softening of his voice. Perhaps he, too, felt that it was time to cultivate a heart and to fall in love. She smiled with an approach to happiness. Any hint of tenderness in a man's voice made her like a flower opening its petals to the sun.