“And what is there unusual to-day?” he almost asked, but did not ask.  It would, of course, have been utterly monstrous to put such a question, knowing what he knew.  He thought:  I’m not a bit nearer telling her than I was when I came.

After the parlour-maid had poured out the champagne Concepcion picked up her glass and absently glanced through it and said: 

“You know, G.J., I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear that Carly was killed out there.  I shouldn’t, really.”

In amazement G.J. ceased to eat.

“You needn’t look at me like that,” she said.  “I’m quite serious.  One may as well face the risks. He does.  Of course they’re all heroes.  There are millions of heroes.  But I do honestly believe that my Carly would be braver than anyone.  By the way, did I ever tell you he was considered the best shot in Cheshire?”

“No.  But I knew,” answered G.J. feebly.  He would have expected her to be a little condescending towards Carlos, to whom in brains she was infinitely superior.  But no!  Carlos had mastered her, and she was grateful to him for mastering her.  He had taught her in three weeks more than she had learnt on two continents in thirty years.  She talked of him precisely as any wee wifie might have talked of the soldier-spouse.  And she called him “Carly”!

Neither of them had touched the champagne.  G.J. decided that he would postpone any attempt to tell her until her cousin arrived; her cousin might arrive at any moment now.

While the parlour-maid presented potatoes Concepcion deliberately ignored her and said dryly to G.J.: 

“I can’t eat any more.  I think I ought to run along to Debenham and Freebody’s at once.  You might come too, and be sure to bring your good taste with you.”

He was alarmed by her tone.

“Debenham and Freebody’s!  What for?”

“To order mourning, of course.  To have it ready, you know.  A precaution, you know.”  She laughed.

He saw that she was becoming hysterical:  the special liability of the war-bride for whom the curtain has been lifted and falls exasperatingly, enragingly, too soon.

“You think I’m a bit hysterical?” she questioned, half menacingly, and stood up.

“I think you’d better sit down, to begin with,” he said firmly.

The parlour-maid, blushing slightly, left the room.

“Oh, all right!” Concepcion agreed carelessly, and sat down.  “But you may as well read that.”

She drew a telegram from the low neck of her gown and carefully unfolded it and placed it in front of him.  It was a War Office telegram announcing that Carlos had been killed.

“It came ten minutes before you,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me at once?” he murmured, frightfully shocked.  He was actually reproaching her!

She stood up again.  She lived; her breast rose and fell.  Her gown had the same voluptuousness.  Her temperament was still emanating the same aura.  She was the same new Concepcion, strange and yet profoundly known to him.  But ineffable tragedy had marked her down, and the sight of her parched the throat.