Eileen didn’t say much on the journey, save an occasional burst of
ecstasy when she saw a rabbit sitting up and washing its face. It
was interesting to watch the Devonshire ancestry looking out through
eyes that hitherto had seen little but the sordid grey-brown grime
of London, but were now drinking in everything on that loveliest of
English lines—and where can you equal the G.W.R. for beautiful scenery,
combined with such good carriage springs, such courteous officials, and
such always-attentive guards?
Owing to the accommodating character of the Time Table, as re-arranged
by our paternal government, there was no Wye Valley connection, and
we had some time to wait at Chepstow. We went into the hotel and I
ordered a meal, Eileen choosing fried ham and eggs as the greatest
flight of luxury to which her mind could soar. I admit it was reckless
extravagance for war-time, but Virginia and I, to say nothing of
Eileen, were cold and hungry, and really one can’t be held accountable
for one’s actions under such circumstances. It was a noble dish when it
came, enough for five people.
When Eileen had cleared her first helping, she merely gazed at me with
a seraphic smile, still clutching her knife and fork. I asked if she
would like any more?
“No, thank you, ma’am,” she replied, in the most polite company style.
But seeing her eyes still on the dish, I pressed her to have another
slice; I knew she would have several hours of keen fresh air before we
could get our next meal.
She leant a little towards me, her knife and fork held upright on the
table the while. “Well, it’s like this,” she said, in a loud stage
whisper, that sent a ripple over the few people who were in the coffee
room. “Does you have to pay for it whether you eats it or not?”