"Not on my head perhaps, but on my heart—or rather," he added, slipping a khaki arm round her, "on the place where my heart used to be."
Next morning, on parade, his chest measurement was the object of universal envy.
THE TWO RECRUITING SERGEANTS.
Upstairs, Baby, after many false starts, had finally settled into sleep. Downstairs, the little maid, alternately rattling knives against plates and saying "S'sh" to herself, had cleared away dinner. John, who had been strangely silent during the meal, was in his deep arm-chair, smoking. It was Mary's peace-hour.
She lay on the sofa, for she was always tired by now, reading the morning paper—her first chance at it. As she read, she made little comments aloud, as that the Germans were beasts, or that it was splendid about the Russians doing so well; and this was the signal for John to join in with the latest strategic gossip from the City.
Only to-night he didn't. He just sat smoking and thinking ... thinking.
"I suppose the French," said Mary, lazily, "are going to—— John!" She looked across at him suddenly, realizing all at once that he had answered none of her questions, knowing all at once that something was the matter.
"Yes?" he said, coming out of his thoughts with a start.
"John, you—," she sat up with a jerk and craned her head forward at him—"you haven't been dismissed?" She clenched her hands tight for the answer. Sometimes at night, when he was asleep and she wasn't, she would wonder what they would do if he were dismissed.