He spoke so inexhaustibly and fast, and his topics changed so quickly that she could do no more than let the words go into her ears. She listened to the words and stored them up. One main line of topic held her; otherwise she could not think. She only let her eyes run over the friezes of the opposite houses. She gathered that Tietjens had been unjustly dismissed by Campion, whilst saving two lives under fire. Mckechnie grudgingly admitted heriosm to Tietjens in order to blacken the General. The General wanted Sylvia Tietjens. So as to get her he had sent Tietjens into the hottest part of the line. But Tietjens had refused to get killed. He had a charmed life. That was Provvy spiting the General. All the same, Providence could not like Tietjens, a cully who comforted his wife’s lover. A dirty thing to do. When Tietjens would not be killed the General came down into the Line and strafed him to Hell. Didn’t she, Valentine, understand why? He wanted Tietjens cashiered so that he, Campion, might be less disgustingly disgraced for taking up with the wife. But he had overreached himself. You can’t be cashiered for not being on the spot to lick a General’s boots when you are saving life under rifle-fire. So the General had to withdraw his words and find Tietjens a dirty scavenger’s job. Made a bleedin’ gaoler of him!
She was standing in the doorway so that this fellow should not run upstairs to where the conversation was going on. The windows consoled her. She only gathered that Tietjens had had great mental trouble. He must have. She knew nothing of either Sylvia Tietjens or the General except for their beautiful looks. But Tietjens must have had great mental trouble. Dreadful!
It was hateful. How could she stand it! But she must, to keep this fellow from Tietjens, who was talking to her mother.
And … if his wife was a bad wife, didn’t it …
The windows were consoling. A little dark boy of an officer passed the railings of the house, looking up at the windows.
Mckechnie had talked himself hoarse. He was coughing. He began to complain that his uncle, Sir Vincent Macmaster, had refused him an introduction to the Foreign Office. He had made a scene at the Macmasters’ already that morning. Lady Macmaster—a haggard wanton, if there ever was one—had refused him access to his uncle, who was suffering from nervous collapse. He said suddenly:
“Now about this sonnet: I’m at least going to show this fellow. …” Two more officers, one short, the other tall, passed the window. They were laughing and calling out. “… that I’m a better Latinist than he. …”
She sprang into the hall. Thunder again had come from the door.
In the light outside a little officer with his half profile towards her seemed to be listening. Beside him was a thin lady, very tall. At the bottom of the steps were the two laughing officers. The boy, his eye turned towards her, with a shrinking timidity you would have said, exclaimed in a soft voice:
“We’ve come for Major Tietjens. … This is Nancy. Of Bailleul, you know!” He had turned his face still more towards the lady. She was unreasonably thin and tall, the face of her skin drawn. She was much the older. Much. And hostile. She must have put on a good deal of colour. Purplish. Dressed in black. She ducked a little.
Valentine said:
“I’m afraid. … He’s engaged. …”
The boy said:
“Oh, but he’ll see us. This is Nancy, you know!”
One of the officers said:
“We said we’d look old Tietjens up. …” He had only one arm. She was losing her head. The boy had a blue band round his hat. She said:
“But he’s dreadfully urgently engaged. …”
The boy turned his face full on her with a gesture of entreaty.
“Oh, but …” he said. She nearly fell, stepping back. His eye-socket contained nothing; a disorderly reddish scar. It made him appear to be peering blindly; the absence of the one eye blotted out the existence of the other. He said in Oriental pleading tones:
“The Major saved my life; I must see him!” The sleeveless officer called out:
“We said we’d look old Tietjens up. … it’s armi … hick. … At Rouen in the pub. …” The boy continued:
“I’m Aranjuez, you know! Aranjuez. …” They had only been married last week. He was going to the Indian Army tomorrow. They must spend Armistice Day with the Major. Nothing would be anything without the Major. They had a table at the Holborn.
The third officer: he was a very dark, silky-voiced, young Major, crept slowly up the steps, leaning on a stick, his dark eyes on her face.
“It is an engagement, you know!” he said. He had a voice like silk and bold eyes. “We really did make an engagement to come to Tietjen’s house today … whenever it happened … a lot of us. In Rouen. Those who were in Number Two.”
Aranjuez said:
“The C.O.’s to be there. He’s dying, you know. And it would be nothing without the Major. …”
She turned her back on him. She was crying because of the pleading tones of his voice and his small hands. Tietjens was coming down the stairs, mooning slowly.
II
Standing at the telephone Tietjens had recognised at once that this was a mother, pleading with infinite statesmanship for her daughter. There
