The dry, softly modulated voice of Captain Latham at her left lifted Evelyn from her trend of sombre revery.
"Nick is looking uncommonly fit—he'll go in for the cavalry, I suppose."
The young British officer spoke more with a half-humorous effort at conversation than any other motive, but she turned to him with a gesture of appeal.
"Jeffery," she said, "you make me shiver!"
The man stared at her curiously.
"Why, I—I'm sorry. I'm sure I didn't—"
"Oh, of course," she interrupted, "I know you didn't. Don't be silly. As for me, I'm perfectly foolish, don't you know. Only"—she paused—"I detest war talk. It's so fearfully upsetting. It seems only yesterday that it was a subject to drag in when conversation lagged. But now—"
Latham's quizzical reply was almost upon his lips, when, evidently changing his mind, he spoke dryly.
"No doubt you'll become used to it in time.... By the by, I was in fun about old Nick. His objection to grouse coverts and deer-stalking—I can't fancy him in war."
As she didn't reply he picked up his fork, adding: "Yet he's a tremendous athlete—polo and all that sort of thing. Do you know, I suspect that when the real pull comes he won't object to potting at Germans.... Did you do these menu cards, Evelyn? They're awfully well done."