George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face, expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her original announcement had been?
"I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and not at all uncomfortable."
"I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides duty, and all that."
George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him.
"Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you booked for, Mr. Morton?"
Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him expectantly.
"I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly.
"I remember," she said. "You didn't believe in war or something, wasn't it? But this isn't exactly war."
George smiled.
"Scarcely," he said. "It's hiking, singing, playing cards, rattling off stories, largely done by some old men who couldn't get a job in the army of Methuselah. Why should I waste my time at that?"