“Oh, good work! I’ve not seen him for three years.”
“It’s the first Christmas since the war that all three of you have been home.”
His two brothers had walked out to meet the car, and at the sparse edge of Lashmar Woods they sprang out like highwaymen and secured themselves on the running-boards. Lady Lane and her husband were waiting for them in the hall, and, when they sat down to dinner, no one could believe that they had been scattered for nearly five years. The obliteration of time was all that Eric needed to complete his sense of finality. For three days they talked and chaffed one another, exhuming time-honoured jests and bandying stories and experiences from four continents.
Half-consciously Eric realized that he was reviving an atmosphere of the past to avoid thinking of the future; but, when each had told the tale of his wanderings, all looked beyond the smoke and fire of the war to a world which might be peaceful but would certainly be drab.
“What are you going to do now, Basil?,” asked Eric at breakfast on his last morning.
“Well, if a grateful Government has kept open my job in the India Office, I suppose I shall have to start in there—just as if there’d been no jolly little war.”
“And I’m going back to the dear old China Station, just as if there’d been no jolly little war,” added Geoffrey. “Everything’s going to be rather flat... Hullo! Perfectly good postman with Yuletide greetings for all of us!” He bounded out of the room and helped in the sorting. “You’ve got more than your fair share, Ricky.”
“You can have them all, if you’ll pay the bills,” answered Eric. “Or I’ll pay the bills, if you’ll accept the invitations and go in my place. Would you like to lunch with Lady Poynter? Her husband had some marvellous port a couple of years ago. Or dine with Mrs. Shelley? I can give you a list of her clichés: a book always “creates an illusion” with her, and modern poetry is “the pendant to a mood”. I can’t honestly recommend her. Misguided women who think I still dance... Or you may dine with Mr. Justice and Lady Maitland; I don’t know them, but you’re sure to get a good dinner, because their daughter says—here it is, if you don’t believe me—‘My father is so anxious to meet you.’”
“Sounds as if you’d been trifling with her young affections,” said Geoffrey. “Take my advice and don’t go.”
“I’ve no intention of going,” Eric answered. “I’ve work to do.”