"Because I like it," I said. "Take a book, and go out and sit down in the Park, and get yourself fit and well as soon as ever you can. We shan't have this war finished if many of you hang around here at home. Besides, the neighbours in London Street are beginning to talk."
"I don't suppose they ever belonged to the deafs and dumbs, and I'll guarantee there's few people in Greenwich who care less what's chattered about them than you do. As a matter of fact, I'm going to run up to town to see my brother. I want to get him to draw up a will for me."
"You ought to have done that long ago."
"Possibly," he said. "But long ago I hadn't anything to leave, and long ago I didn't know anyone special I wanted to leave it to. I'll trouble you, Mary Weston, for a fond embrace."
The Quartermaster-Sergeant, soon after this, was detailed for duty at Seaford, where he had to look after the convalescent men who were preparing to return to the front. I did not tell him, and did not inform anybody, how greatly I missed him.
Herbert's progress was slow, but there came a time when he was able, with Muriel's assistance, to walk about the gardens of Gloucester Place, and I noticed that their conversation was often animated, that they called each other by Christian names. Then there came news of cruel treatment of (amongst others) a chum of Herbert's, now in a German lager not so well managed as the one in which John had been detained, and Herbert worked himself up to a state of excitement over the methods that had been practised, and his own inability to help in taking revenge. The doctor summoned a specialist from Wimpole Street, and Muriel told me privately of her fears that she might find herself replaced by someone owning greater qualifications. The specialist gave orders regarding treatment, asked no questions concerning Muriel, approved her careful manner of taking notes. Herbert was not to be left alone at night, and I offered my services.
"Are you his sister?" inquired the man from Wimpole Street. I explained the relationship. "Heavens!" he cried. "Incredible! Bless my soul! How difficult it is, in these days, to guess a woman's age."
"Thanks for the compliment, sir."
"It isn't a compliment," he retorted. "I'm hinting at the facts. If anybody asked me, I should say you were in love."
"Nobody is likely to ask you," I remarked, "and you needn't pledge your word to a statement of that kind."