Peter Jameson. Gilbert Frankau
him. For a moment, the sense of having done the right thing blurred his business judgment.
“You’re a topping pal, Pat,” he said to her as they kissed good-night. … But Patricia, waking to the first shimmer of dawn through the chinks of the silk curtains, felt herself, for the first time, woman indeed. For now she loved him, utterly, beyond friendship: and lying there, quite still in her own narrow bed, she vowed this new love to his service in whatsoever guise he most should need it. …
§ 7
“The whole thing’s a farce, Pat.”
It was already three weeks since Peter had been promised his commission; two since his “kit” had been delivered from his tailors.
Outwardly the situation between husband and wife had not altered. Reason told her that this new love she felt for him could win its reward only by patience. And she needed all her patience those days. Disorganization held no humour for Peter Jameson. His patriotism, if it could have found expression, would have vented itself in few words: “There’s a job to be done. A rotten job. Let’s do it, and get back to our businesses.” He was still—in the intervals of importuning the War Office—running those businesses; hearing telephoned reports; suggesting this, vetoing that. But more than a fraction of the old-time keenness had evaporated. The blind spirit of War had caught him, was carrying him onwards. …
He walked over to the bureau between the windows; picked out a telegraph-form from the racked paper-holder; began to write.
She looked at him across the breakfast-débris—calm, golden-haired, very fresh in her white blouse, her blue walking-skirt; guessed, from the bent back, the concentration in his taut brain. Looking, love leaped into her dark eyes, moistening them.
“I think this’ll do,” he said, turning so suddenly that she scarcely had time to drop her lashes: “Colonel Thompson. Room 154. War Office. Reference our recent interview am now ready and shall be glad of instructions to report for duty. Reply paid. Jameson. 22a, Lowndes Square, W.”
“You can’t send that,” said Patricia.
“Can’t I?” He rang for Smith, gave instructions for immediate dispatch of the wire.
§ 8
Patricia, coming in from her afternoon walk with the children, found a tawny envelope on the hall table. The telegram was addressed “Jameson,” and she opened it casually; felt her heart stop as though two fingers had clutched it; heard Primula’s voice: “What’s the matter, Mummy?” …
“Nothing’s the matter, dear,” she said calmly. “You and Evelyn had better go upstairs to Nanny.”
She watched them, running up the broad stone staircase, out of sight. Then she read the pencilled message again: “Report for duty 10th Chalkshires Shoreham Camp immediately. Thompson. War Office.”
“What a fool I am,” she said to herself. “What a selfish unpatriotic fool!”
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