‘Look here,’ said Desmond, ‘I’ve only got two days!’

Elizabeth could not help watching the boy—­his look at his father, the physical beauty and perfection of him.  The great Victory at the end of the room with her outstretched wings seemed to be hovering above him.

‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said the Squire slowly.

Desmond gave a laugh of triumph, twined his arm in that of his father, and dragged him away.

* * * * *

’DEAR BELOVED DICK—­I must just finish this before dinner.  Oh, how I like to think of you at Baghdad, with trees and shade, and civilized quarters again, after all you’ve gone through.  Have you got my letters, and those gauze things I sent you for the hot weather?  They tell me here they’re right.  But how’s one to know?  Meanwhile, my dear, here are your mother and sister on their knees to you, just to be told what you want.  Try and want something!—­there’s a dear.

’Mother’s fairly well—­I mean as well as we can expect after such an illness.  My salary here enables me to give her a proper trained nurse, and to send Jean to school.  As to the rest, don’t trouble about me, old man.  Sometimes I think it was my pride more than anything else that was hurt a year ago.  Anyway I find in myself a tremendous appetite for work.  In spite of his oddities, Mr. Mannering is a most stimulating critic and companion.  My work is interesting, and I find myself steeped once more in the most fascinating, the most wonderful of all literatures!  What remains unsatisfied in me is the passion which you know I have always had for setting things straight—­organizing, tidying up!  Not to speak of other passions—­for work directly connected with the war, for instance—­which have had to be scrapped for a time.  I can’t bear the muddle and waste of this place.  It gets on my nerves.  Perhaps, if I stay, I may get a chance.  I have made a small beginning—­with the food.  But I won’t bother you with it.

’Above all, I must try and make friends with the twins.  Desmond would be easy, but he’s going.  Pamela will be more difficult.  However, I shall do my best.  As I have already said, if she would only set up a flirtation—­a nice one—­that I could aid and abet!

’What will the married sisters be like?  Desmond and Pamela say very little.  All I know is that Alice—­that’s Mrs. Gaddesden—­is to have a fire in her room all day, though the weather now is like July.  To judge from her photographs, she is fair, rather pretty, stout and lethargic.  Whereas Margaret is as thin almost as her father, and head-over-ears in war charities.  She lives, says Pamela, on arrowroot and oatcake, to set an example, and her servants leave her regularly every month.

’Well, we shall see.  I run on like this, because you say you like to be gossipped to; and I am just a little lonely here—­sometimes.  Good-night, and good-bye.—­Your devoted sister,

     ‘ELIZABETH.’