The men and their friends went off, chattering; the crowd diminished and the features of those who remained shewed anxiety.
"Anyone here called Mrs. Barford?" inquired a deep voice.
"That's me," whispered my companion. "You go and see what he wants, miss. I'm too nervous. I'm all of a tremble." I went forward.
"If you are Mrs. Barford," said the Corporal, speaking to me formally and deliberately, "I regret to have to inform you that your husband fell down, and died he did, just as we was about to get in the train at Bailleul. Heart attack probably. I need not say how sorry I am to be the bearer of bad news." He went off with his wife and son.
I had to take the sad group home to Greenwich, and to give all the comfort and sympathy I could provide. And wished, with all my heart and soul, that I had been better fitted for the task.
It was not long ere the new nurse and myself stepped inside the ring. If she had been an angel from Heaven (which she was not) I should probably have found some excuse for challenging her; she admitted, when it was all over, that she found Gloucester Place too quiet for a person of her disposition, and that she was, when the first discussion occurred, spoiling for a fight. I had received a visit from William Richards that afternoon, and a letter from my nephew contained an enclosure, to which I had been looking forward, from Mrs. Kenningham. William called to tell me he was married—
"And this I very well know, Mary Weston, means a rumpus so far as me and you are concerned!"
—Married to a lady hitherto engaged at a railway refreshment counter, and, as I remarked when he shewed me her photograph on the back of a postcard, looking it to the life. I assured him there was no objection so far as I knew, and that I trusted he would be happy; William could not get rid of the idea that an apology and a full explanation were due to me, and with some notion of tempering the blow, made an offer for a bookcase that stood in the shop. Guessing at the motive, I gave many reasons for declining this. The bookcase was not for sale. I myself had taken a fancy to it. Two or three customers were making a bid. The owner had gone abroad, and might return any day. Eventually, William became so piteous that I insisted on making him a gift of the article.
"Wish you hadn't taken it to heart like this, Mary," he mentioned in going. "But I suppose gels are more sensitive than what we men are. They brood over affairs of the kind, and make a grievance of 'em. Only, don't forget this. You had your chance, and it's no one's fault but your own that you didn't take advantage of it. I'll send for the bookcase in a day or two, and thank you kindly."