her voice had a certain note in it which at home Cary and his sister Nancy were in the habit of designating “mother-making-dad-mind-his-manners.”
At her words the old man—and Cary was startled to see how old and broken he was—turned round and held out his hand. “How d’you do?” he said jerkily, “how d’you do?” and then turned abruptly back again to the fireplace.
“Hello! What’s up! The old boy-doesn’t like me!” was Cary’s quick, startled comment to himself.
He was so surprised by the look the other bent upon him that he involuntarily glanced across to a long mirror to see if there was anything wrong with his uniform. But no, that appeared to be all right. It was himself, then—or his country; perhaps the old sport didn’t fall for Americans.
“And here is Gerald,” Lady Sherwood went on in her low remote voice, which somehow made the Virginian feel very far away.
It was with genuine pleasure, though with some surprise, that he turned to greet Gerald Sherwood, Chev’s younger brother, who had been, tradition in the corps said, as gallant and daring a flyer as Chev himself, until he got his in the face five months ago.
“I’m mighty glad to meet you,” he said eagerly, in his pleasant, muffled Southern voice, grasping the hand the other stretched out, and looking with deep respect at the scarred face and sightless eyes.
Gerald laughed a little, but it was a pleasant laugh, and his hand-clasp was friendly.
“That’s real American, isn’t it?” he said. “I ought to have remembered and said it first. Sorry.”
Skipworth laughed too. “Well,” he conceded, “we generally are glad to meet people in my country, and we don’t care who says it first. But,” he added. “I didn’t think I’d have the luck to find you here.”
He remembered that Chev had regretted that he probably wouldn’t see Gerald, as the latter was at St. Dunstan’s, where they were re-educating the blinded soldiers.
The other hesitated a moment, and then said rather
