‘She does,’ Keith assented briefly; and Mark proceeded to fill his pipe.
During the process Keith watched him, appraising his straight, clean manhood and cursing the devilish nature of modern war.
Presently, when Mark had finished with his pipe, he spoke.
‘Keith, old chap, on the strength of peculiar circumstances and the general uncertainty of things, I’m going to make an infernally impertinent remark. To begin with, mother’s most distractingly on my mind. I’ve fixed up most things, with a view to—possible contingencies. But I don’t seem able to fix up her. If I’m knocked out—she’s simply done for. Not even this precious work of hers for consolation. It all goes to Uncle Everard, who’ll make an end of our colony straight away. She’ll lose everything at a stroke, except Inveraig. And she—alone there⸺!’
He set his teeth hard, and Keith passed a long thin hand across his eyes. ‘That’s the tragedy of it,’ he said, adding, with forced lightness. ‘Where does the impertinence come in?’
‘It’s jolly well coming in now. Don’t bite my head off. Truth is, I’m not stone blind; and just lately—I’ve been wondering ... why the deuce don’t you make a match of it? You and Mums!’
Macnair started, and his face looked rather a queer colour in the dim light.
‘Great heavens, Mark! Talk of explosives!’
For the moment he could get no further, and Mark was puzzled. ‘You mean—it’s never occurred to you?’
‘I mean nothing of the sort.’