“Well, anyhow, we’ve got this evening.”

“We haven’t.  I’ve got to drive Belgians from nine till past midnight.”

“We’ve got Friday.  Suppose they’ll give me leave to get married in.  I say—­how about to-morrow evening?”

“I can’t.  Yes, I can.  At least, I shall.  There’s a girl I know who’ll drive for me.  They’ll have to give me leave to get married in, too.”

She thought:  “I can’t go to Flanders now, unless he’s sent out.  If he is, nothing shall stop me but his coming back again.”

It seemed to her only fair and fitting that they should snatch at their happiness and secure it, before their hour came.

She tried to turn her mind from the fact that at Mons the British line was being pressed back and back.  It would recover.  Of course it would recover.  We always began like that.  We went back to go forwards faster, when we got into our stride.

* * * * *

The next evening, Thursday, the girl she knew drove for Dorothea.

When Frances was dressing for dinner her daughter came to her with two frocks over her arm.

“Mummy ducky,” she said, “I think my head’s going.  I can’t tell whether to wear the white thing or the blue thing.  And I feel as if it mattered more than anything.  More than anything on earth.”

Frances considered it—­Dorothea in her uniform, and the white frock and the blue frock.

“It doesn’t matter a little bit,” she said.  “If he could propose to you in that get-up—­”

“Can’t you see that I want to make up for that and for all the things he’s missed, the things I haven’t given him.  If only I was as beautiful as you, Mummy, it wouldn’t matter.”

“My dear—­my dear—­”

Dorothy had never been a pathetic child—­not half so pathetic as Nicky with his recklessness and his earache—­but this grown-up Dorothy in khaki breeches, with her talk about white frocks and blue frocks, made Frances want to cry.

* * * * *

Frank was late.  And just before dinner he telephoned to Dorothy that he couldn’t be with her before nine and that he would only have one hour to give her.

Frances and Anthony looked at each other.  But Dorothy looked at Veronica.

“What’s the matter, Ronny?  You look simply awful.”

“Do I?  My head’s splitting.  I think I’ll go and lie down.”

“You’d better.”

“Go straight to bed,” said Frances. “and let Nanna bring you some hot soup.”

But Veronica did not want Nanna and hot soup.  She only wanted to take herself and her awful look away out of Dorothy’s sight.

“Well,” said Anthony, “if she’s going to worry herself sick about Nicky now—­”

Frances knew that she was not worrying about Nicky.

It was nine o’clock.

At any minute now Frank might be there.  Dorothy thought:  “Supposing he hasn’t got leave?” But she knew that was not likely.  If he hadn’t got leave he would have said so when he telephoned.