CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH WE MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE GODDAUGHTER OF EDWARD BEAN
Mr. Philip counted the hours till Sunday came.
He was sorely infected now by the deadly virus.
As for those three goals against Scotland, he had clean forgotten them. They were never mentioned in his own little world. In Grosvenor Square, in particular, no store was set by such irresponsible undergraduate behavior. There his career only dated from the time he had managed to get his commission rather easily in the Second, and he had never been quite forgiven for tiring of a respectable course of life so soon.
It was strange that this sportswoman, so full of sense and pluck, had seen him in the crowded and glorious hour when life was his in its fullness. He had lived in those days, perhaps a little crudely, but now he wanted to have done with his idleness and start to live again.
He was in love with Mary Caspar, and that was all about it! Whether she drank tea at the Carlton or warbled ditties on the boards of Drury, she rang tune in every note. No wonder that she was the uncrowned
