Bremerton, and half a page about an air-raid. It left Elizabeth
sorer and more puzzled than before.
Desmond too! She had written to him also from London a long chat
about all the things he cared about at Mannering--the animals,
Pamela's pony, the old keeper, the few pheasants still left in the
woods, and what Perley said of the promise of a fair partridge
season. And the boy had replied immediately. Desmond's Eton manners
were rarely caught napping; but the polite little note--stiff and
frosty--might have been written to a complete stranger.
What _was_ in their minds? How could she put it right? Well, anyhow,
Desmond could not at that moment be wasting time or thought on home
worries, or her own supposed misdemeanours. Where was the radiant
boy now? In some artillery camp, she supposed, behind the lines,
waiting for his ordeal of blood and fire. Waiting with the whole
Army--the whole Empire--for that leap of the German monster which
must be met and parried and struck down before England could breathe
again.
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