bones!”
“I don’t know much about the war in South Africa,” she said seriously. “I should like to understand it better.”
Oliver laughed outright.
“So should I!” he said. “So would Charles, no doubt!”
“So should I what?” said Charles, looking round at his name.
“Miss Sprague was saying she would like to understand the war better. I tell her she’s not alone in that.”
“She’s got lots of company up at the War Office, I should think,” said Charles. His voice was rather light for so big a man, and had a sort of softening overtone like a burr, which came of his Gloucestershire upbringing and which Eton had failed entirely to eliminate.
Edward then gave it as his opinion that they were a lot of bl-blithering fools at the War Office and that General Buller ought to get the sack, and Winifred said what about the b.f.’s at Westminster while he was about it, and the conversation became general and rather heated. Phoebe thought she could see Bracken making mental notes on the state of public opinion in England and she sat silent, wondering about Rosalind andCharles, weaving romance around them and Rosalind’s ambitious mamma. And by the time the dessert came in she had become so aware of the man on her left that she felt him like a tingling in her fingertips.
Life, and a zest for living emanated from Oliver Campion like a fragrance. His casual humour, baiting Edward good-naturedly , kept ripples of laughter running through her. Once when his elbow accidentally touched hers she started as though the tweed sleeve had burned her. She was obsessed by the need to look and look at him, imprinting his lean brown sparkling face on her memory, and like a man who triumphs over the fumes of a heady wine and by sheer will power holds his behaviour to a normal pitch she forced herself to keep her eyes turned from him and her mind on what was being said by the rest of them. He’s like Father, she found herself thinking dazedly in her inner turmoil. He outshines everybody else without trying. And again, sealing her own doom with the knowledge—Father must have been like this when he was young.
“What are you thinking of, all by yourself?” said Oliver’s low voice on her left, and Phoebe, caught off guard, blurted out the truth.
“You remind me of my father,” she said, and his eyes searched hers briefly for any sort of double meaning or transatlantic jest, and found only a troubled honesty.
“That must be rather a compliment,” he said then.
“I thought there was no one like him,” she explained simply. “But you are. When he was your age, I mean.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver. “I should like to say, if I may, that I never dreamed there was anybody like you.”
For a moment more, surrounded by that noisy, contentious luncheon table, they looked at each other, and then realized that their hostess had risen.
They said no more to each other until the general good-byes, when he took her hand in a warm, hard clasp, and remarked, “My leave runs through July, so you’ll see a good deal of me, I expect. Do you like to ride without the fox and hounds?”
“Very much.”
“Good. I’ve got just the horse here. May I bring him round tomorrow morning about ten?”
“Thank you, I’d like to if—if Virginia has nothing else planned.”
“She’ll lend you to me,” he promised confidently. “The anemones are out, and you must see them at their prime, they don’t last long.”
Phoebe was very quiet on the drive home, which she made in the dog-cart with Bracken and Virginia, while the others followed in the barouche. Virginia rattled on to Bracken, who was anxious to hear about everything which had happened since he was last in England the previous autumn, and then suddenly she said, “What did you think of Oliver, Phoebe, isn’t he a duck? I was terribly afraid you might get stuck down with Mortimer, who bores us all to tears, poor dear. The best I hoped for you was Tommy Chetwynd,
“I don’t know much about the war in South Africa,” she said seriously. “I should like to understand it better.”
Oliver laughed outright.
“So should I!” he said. “So would Charles, no doubt!”
“So should I what?” said Charles, looking round at his name.
“Miss Sprague was saying she would like to understand the war better. I tell her she’s not alone in that.”
“She’s got lots of company up at the War Office, I should think,” said Charles. His voice was rather light for so big a man, and had a sort of softening overtone like a burr, which came of his Gloucestershire upbringing and which Eton had failed entirely to eliminate.
Edward then gave it as his opinion that they were a lot of bl-blithering fools at the War Office and that General Buller ought to get the sack, and Winifred said what about the b.f.’s at Westminster while he was about it, and the conversation became general and rather heated. Phoebe thought she could see Bracken making mental notes on the state of public opinion in England and she sat silent, wondering about Rosalind andCharles, weaving romance around them and Rosalind’s ambitious mamma. And by the time the dessert came in she had become so aware of the man on her left that she felt him like a tingling in her fingertips.
Life, and a zest for living emanated from Oliver Campion like a fragrance. His casual humour, baiting Edward good-naturedly , kept ripples of laughter running through her. Once when his elbow accidentally touched hers she started as though the tweed sleeve had burned her. She was obsessed by the need to look and look at him, imprinting his lean brown sparkling face on her memory, and like a man who triumphs over the fumes of a heady wine and by sheer will power holds his behaviour to a normal pitch she forced herself to keep her eyes turned from him and her mind on what was being said by the rest of them. He’s like Father, she found herself thinking dazedly in her inner turmoil. He outshines everybody else without trying. And again, sealing her own doom with the knowledge—Father must have been like this when he was young.
“What are you thinking of, all by yourself?” said Oliver’s low voice on her left, and Phoebe, caught off guard, blurted out the truth.
“You remind me of my father,” she said, and his eyes searched hers briefly for any sort of double meaning or transatlantic jest, and found only a troubled honesty.
“That must be rather a compliment,” he said then.
“I thought there was no one like him,” she explained simply. “But you are. When he was your age, I mean.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver. “I should like to say, if I may, that I never dreamed there was anybody like you.”
For a moment more, surrounded by that noisy, contentious luncheon table, they looked at each other, and then realized that their hostess had risen.
They said no more to each other until the general good-byes, when he took her hand in a warm, hard clasp, and remarked, “My leave runs through July, so you’ll see a good deal of me, I expect. Do you like to ride without the fox and hounds?”
“Very much.”
“Good. I’ve got just the horse here. May I bring him round tomorrow morning about ten?”
“Thank you, I’d like to if—if Virginia has nothing else planned.”
“She’ll lend you to me,” he promised confidently. “The anemones are out, and you must see them at their prime, they don’t last long.”
Phoebe was very quiet on the drive home, which she made in the dog-cart with Bracken and Virginia, while the others followed in the barouche. Virginia rattled on to Bracken, who was anxious to hear about everything which had happened since he was last in England the previous autumn, and then suddenly she said, “What did you think of Oliver, Phoebe, isn’t he a duck? I was terribly afraid you might get stuck down with Mortimer, who bores us all to tears, poor dear. The best I hoped for you was Tommy Chetwynd,
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