Chapter 8 - Page 2

worker as he was, they did much together
and made plans without ceasing. When he was away she was always doing
things in which he was interested and when he returned he always brought
to her suggestions for new service or the development of the old. But as
the days passed and became weeks she knew that the far-off sound was
still being listened to. She could not have told how--but she knew. And
she saw the beloved dearness and beauty growing in him. He came into the
house each day in his khaki as if khaki were a shining thing. When he
laughed, or sat and smiled, or dreamed--forgetting she was there--her
very heart quaked with delight in him. Another woman than Robin counted
over his charms and made a tender list of them, wondering at each one.
As a young male pheasant in mating time dons finer gloss and brilliancy
of plumage, perhaps he too bloomed and all unconscious developed added
colour and inches and gallant swing of tread. As people turned half
astart to look at Robin bending over her desk or walking about among
them in her modest dress, so also did they turn to look after him as he
went in springing march along the streets.

"Some day he will begin to tell me," Helen used to say to herself at
night. "He may only _begin_--but perhaps it will be to-morrow."

It was not, however, to-morrow--or to-morrow. And in the midst of his
work he still listened. As he sat and dreamed he listened and sometimes
he was very deep in thought--sitting with his arms folded and his eyes
troubled and questioning of the space into which he looked. The time was
really not very long, but it began to seem so to her.

"But some day--soon--he will tell me," she thought.

* * * * *

One afternoon Donal walked into a room where a number of well-dressed
women were talking, drinking tea and knitting or crocheting. It had
begun already to be the fashion for almost every woman to carry on her
arm a work bag and produce from its depths at any moment without warning
something she was making. In the early days the bag was usually highly
decorated and the article being made was a luxury. Only a few serious
and pessimistic workers had begun to produce plain usefulness and in
this particular Mayfair drawing-room "the War" as yet seemed to present
itself rather as a dramatic and picturesque social asset. A number of
good-looking young officers moved about or sat in corners being petted
and flirted with, while many of the women had the slightly elated
excitement of air produced in certain of their sex by the marked
preponderance of the presence of the masculine element. It was a thing
which made for high spirits and laughs and amiable semi-caressing chaff.
The women who in times of peace