II

I did not enjoy that dinner. To begin with, I felt like a vulgar

intruder on something that was almost sacred, and certainly very

precious. For all the signs of the 'last evening' were there. The dishes

we had were Harry's favourites, procured at I know what trouble and

expense by Mrs. Harry; and she watched tremulously to see that he liked

them. She had gone out and bought him a bottle of well-loved Moselle,

for a special surprise, and some port; which was a huge extravagance.

But that was nothing, if these things could only give a special

something to this meal which would make him remember it; for the flowers

he never saw, and the new dress went unnoticed for a long time. But I

felt that it would all have gone much better, perhaps, if I had not been

there, and I hoped she did not hate me.

And Harry was not at his best. The question he asked me I had had no

time to answer, and he had not answered it himself. Through most of that

dinner, which by all the rules should have been, superficially at least,

cheerful and careless, as if there were no such thing as separation

ahead, Harry was thoughtful and preoccupied. And I knew that he was

still arguing with himself, 'What shall I say to Mackenzie? Yes or

No?'--wandering up and down among the old doubts and resolutions and

fears.... Mrs. Harry saw this as well as I ... and, no doubt, she cursed

me for being there because in my presence she could not ask him what

worried him.

But the Moselle began to do its work: Harry talked a little and noticed

the new dress, and we all laughed a lot at the pudding, which came up in

such a curious shape.... We were very glad to laugh at something.

Then Mrs. Harry spoke of some people in the regiment of whom she had

heard a good deal--George Dawson, and Egerton, and old Colonel Roberts.

I knew that in a minute we should stumble into talking about the

trenches or shells, or some such folly, and have Harry gloomy and

brooding again. I could not stand that, and I did not think Mrs. Harry

could, so I plunged recklessly into the smoother waters of life in

France. I told them the old story about General Jackson and the

billet-guard; and then we came on to the famous night at Forceville, and

other historic battalion orgies--the dinner at Monchy Breton, when we

put a row of candles on the floor of the tent for footlights, and George

and a few subs made a perfect beauty chorus. Those are the things one

likes to remember about active service, and I was very glad to remember

them then. The special port came in and was a great success; Harry

warmed up, and laughed over those old gaieties, and was in great form.

At that moment I think his answer to Major Mackenzie would have been

definitely 'No.'

Mrs. Harry laughed very much too, and said she envied us the amusing

times we had together 'out there.' 'You men have all the fun.' And that

made me feel a heartless ass for having started on that topic. For I

knew that when Harry was away there was little 'fun' for her; and

whether he was lying on his stomach in a shell-hole, or singing songs in

an estaminet, not thinking much of his wife, perhaps, except when they

drank 'Sweethearts and Wives'--it was all one uniform, hideous wait for

her. So I think it was hollow laughter for Mrs. P....

Moreover, though I did not know how much she knew about Harry's

difficulties, the 'job' and so one, I felt sure that with the

extraordinary instinct of a wife she scented something of the conflict

that was going on; and she knew vaguely that this exaggerated laudation

of the amenities of France meant somehow danger to her.... So that just

as I was beginning to congratulate myself on the bucking up of Harry, I

tardily perceived that between us we were wounding the wife. And I more

than ever wished myself anywhere than sitting at that pretty table with

the shaded lights.

Well, we nearly finished the port--Harry still in excellent form--and

went upstairs. Harry went off to look for smokes or something, and I

knew at once that Mrs. Harry was going to ask me questions about him.

You know how a woman stands in front of the fire, and looks down, and

kind of paws the fender with one foot when she is going to say something

confidential. Then she looks up suddenly, and you're done. Mrs. Harry

did that, and I was done. At any other time I should have loved to talk

to her about Harry, but that night I felt it was dangerous ground.

'How do you think Harry is looking?' she said. 'You probably know better

than I do, nowadays.'