Hospitals could scarcely be evaded by anybody, and you never knew whom you might meet there. For instance, a customer of mine, after declaring that she would add nothing to her collection of old furniture on the grounds that money should be saved and lent to the Government, discovered in a friend's house a Queen Anne tallboy chest, and a craving for possession took hold of her. The friend resolutely declined to sell; my customer came to me with an urgent appeal. I saw an advertisement of one from a London square, and although I begrudged the trouble of the journey, and the giving up of time, I went to town; spent a brisk three-quarters of an hour in haggling with a gentleman who knew more of the subject than I had ever attempted to learn; made a feint of coming away and was re-called by him, to listen to a frank statement of eagerness to sell. On this, I fixed upon an Adam elbow chair, affecting to have lost all interest in the tallboy chest. I eventually obtained the chest at less than the figure I had first offered. On the best of terms now, he made me promise that before returning to Greenwich I would inspect the glass windows, not far off, which had been broken in an air raid of a few nights before.
On the way I noticed that a hospital where wounded soldiers were sunning themselves outside, announced a Pound Day and a grand entertainment for the current date. Remembering the profit I was to make out of the chest bargain, I went up the steps, put my sovereign on the matron's table. I think it was the rare sight of gold that caused the official lady to exhibit particular gratitude—there were several notes there signed by Mr. Bradbury—and anyway I found myself taken by her to the out-patient's department where a show was being given by a first class set of good-natured theatrical folk. (There seemed to be no limits to the kindness of their profession).
The matron caught sight of me as I was leaving, and dropped everything in order to intercept. I had not signed her Visitor's Book. I must undoubtedly sign her Visitor's Book. Her Visitor's Book would be valueless without my signature. On the same page, and but a couple of entries above, appeared the name of Herbert Millwood. It seemed my nephew was upstairs visiting one of the men, and feeling myself well repaid now for a burst of generosity, I waited outside for him.
"No, aunt," he said, when I made a suggestion concerning the raid as we walked in the crowded main road. "Smashed glass belonging to other people makes no call to me. Broken hopes belonging to myself are much more important."
It appeared he was going back to duty that night, and had to catch a train from Liverpool Street; I soon discovered that he had spent the day in making one more effort to discover Muriel Hillier.
"I've no patience with her," I declared. "There can't be a good reason for keeping her relatives in suspense. If I came across her now, I should have a word or two to say to her."
"And I too," remarked Herbert. "Likely enough, though our words would not be identical."
We turned into Red Lion Square to escape the crush.
"I know how difficult it is to give advice, my boy," I said, "in matters of the kind, and I'm aware that it's next door to impossible to get it accepted. But I wish you'd recognise that the situation has very much changed since the time when you fell in love with her. You're a lieutenant now. You're an officer in His Majesty's army. You've made a good record. Whilst she—"
"I don't want to hear anything for her, aunt, or against her. I only want to hear something of her."