In that computation he reckoned without Hugh.
Within a month Hugh was also saying "Good-bye."
"But how's this?" protested Mr. Britling, who had already guessed the
answer. "You're not nineteen."
"I'm nineteen enough for this job," said Hugh. "In fact, I enlisted as
nineteen."
Mr. Britling said nothing for a little while. Then he spoke with a catch
in his breath. "I don't blame you," he said. "It was--the right spirit."
Drill and responsibilities of non-commissioned rank had imposed a novel
manliness upon the bearing of Corporal Britling. "I always classified a
little above my age at Statesminster," he said as though that cleared up
everything.
He looked at a rosebud as though it interested him. Then he remarked
rather casually:
"I thought," he said, "that if I was to go to war I'd better do the
thing properly. It seemed--sort of half and half--not to be eligible for
the trenches.... I ought to have told you...."
"Yes," Mr. Britling decided.
"I was shy about it at first.... I thought perhaps the war would be over
before it was necessary to discuss anything.... Didn't want to go into
it."
"Exactly," said Mr. Britling as though that was a complete explanation.
"It's been a good year for your roses," said Hugh.