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She could find nothing, however, likely to displease a sane man. And
as she was at a standstill till he came back, she slipped an
unfinished letter out of her notebook, and went on with it. It was
to a person whom she addressed as 'my darling Dick.'
'I have now been rather more than a month here. You can't
imagine what a queer place it is, nor what a queer employer I
have struck. There might be no war--as far as Mannering is
concerned. The Squire is always engaged in mopping it out, like
Mrs. Partington. He takes no newspaper, except a rag called the
_Lanchester Mail_, which attacks the Government, the Army--as
far as it dare--and "secret diplomacy." It comes out about once
a week with a black page, because the Censor has been sitting on
it. Desmond Mannering--that's the gunner-son who came on leave a
week ago and is just going off to an artillery camp--and I,
conspire through the butler--who is a dear, and a patriot--to
get the _Times_; but the Squire never sees it.


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