Part 58 (1/2)

”He was too weak to say anything more. But he sent you his love.”

Vera said to herself: ”He didn't. She made that up.”

She hated the Red Cross woman who had been with Lawrence and had seen so much; who had dared to tell her what he meant and to make up messages.

XXIII

Nicholas had applied for a commission, and he had got it, and Frances was glad.

She had been proud of him because he had chosen the ranks instead of the Officers' Training Corps; but she persisted in the belief that, when it came to the trenches, second lieutenants stood a better chance. ”For goodness' sake,” Nicholas had said, ”don't tell her that they're over the parapet first.”

That was in December. In February he got a week's leave--sudden, unforeseen and special leave. It had to be broken to her this time that leave as special as that meant war-leave.

She said, ”Well, if it does, I shall have him for six whole days.” She had learned how to handle time, how to prolong the present, drawing it out minute by minute; thus her happiness, stretched to the snapping point, vibrated.

She had a sense of its vibration now, as she looked at Nicholas. It was the evening of the day he had come home, and they were all in the drawing-room together. He was standing before her, straight and tall, on the hearthrug, where he had lifted the Persian cat, Timmy, out of his sleep and was holding him against his breast. Timmy spread himself there, softly and heavily, hanging on to Nicky's shoulder by his claws; he b.u.t.ted Nicky's chin with his head, purring.

”I don't know how I'm to tear myself away from Timmy. I should like to wear him alive as a waistcoat. Or hanging on my shoulder like a cape, with his tail curled tight round my neck. He'd look uncommonly _chic_ with all his khaki patches.”

”Why don't you take him with you?” Anthony said.

”'Cos he's Ronny's cat.”

”He isn't. I've given him to you,” Veronica said.

”When?”

”Now, this minute. To sleep on your feet and keep you warm.”

Frances listened and thought: ”What children--what babies they are, after all.” If only this minute could be stretched out farther.

”I mustn't,” Nicky said. ”I should spend hours in dalliance; and if a sh.e.l.l got him it would ruin my morale.”

Timmy, unhooked from Nicky's shoulder, lay limp in his arms. He lay on his back, in ecstasy, his legs apart, showing the soft, cream-white fur of his stomach. Nicky rubbed his face against the soft, cream-white fur.

”I say, what a heavenly death it would be to die--smothered in Timmies.”

”Nicky, you're a beastly sensualist. That's what's the matter with you,”

John said. And they all laughed.

The minute broke, stretched to its furthest.

Frances was making plans now for Nicky's week. There were things they could do, plays they could see, places they could go to. Anthony would let them have the big car as much as they wanted. For you could stretch time out by filling it; you could multiply the hours by what they held.

”Ronny and I are going to get married to-morrow,” Nicky said. ”We settled it that we would at once, if I got war-leave. It's the best thing to do.”

”Of course,” Frances said, ”it's the best thing to do.”