'Oh, a few minutes. Aubrey and I are to have some supper before I
go. But Forest'll come and tell me.'
'Everything ready? Got money enough?'
'Rather! I shan't want anything for an age. Why, I shall be buying
war-loan out of my pay!'
He laughed happily. Then his face grew suddenly serious.
'Look here, father--I want awfully to say something. Do you mind?'
'If you want to say it, I suppose you will say it.'
The Squire was sitting hunched up, looking old and tired, his thick
white hair piled fantastically above his eyes.
Desmond straightened his shoulders with the air of one going over
the parapet.
'Well, it's this, father. I do wish you'd give up that row about the
park!'
The Squire sat up impatiently.
'That's not your business, Desmond. It can't matter to you.'
'Yes, but it _does_ matter to me!' said the boy with energy. 'It'll
be in all the papers--the fellows will gas about it at mess--it's
awfully hard lines on me. It makes me feel rotten!'
The Squire laughed. He was reminded of a Fourth of June years
before, when Desmond had gone through agonies of shame because
his father was not, in his eyes, properly 'got-up' for the
occasion--how he had disappeared in the High Street, and only
joined his people again in the crowd at the fireworks.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185