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“
Cynthia
!
That
’
s
not
your
wife
?
”
“
No
,
Cynthia
is
a
protégée
of
my
mother
’
s
,
the
daughter
of
an
old
schoolfellow
of
hers
,
who
married
a
rascally
solicitor
.
He
came
a
cropper
,
and
the
girl
was
left
an
orphan
and
penniless
.
My
mother
came
to
the
rescue
,
and
Cynthia
has
been
with
us
nearly
two
years
now
.
She
works
in
the
Red
Cross
Hospital
at
Tadminster
,
seven
miles
away
.
”
As
he
spoke
the
last
words
,
we
drew
up
in
front
of
the
fine
old
house
.
A
lady
in
a
stout
tweed
skirt
,
who
was
bending
over
a
flower
bed
,
straightened
herself
at
our
approach
.
“
Hullo
,
Evie
,
here
’
s
our
wounded
hero
!
Mr
.
Hastings
—
Miss
Howard
.
”
Miss
Howard
shook
hands
with
a
hearty
,
almost
painful
,
grip
.
I
had
an
impression
of
very
blue
eyes
in
a
sunburnt
face
.
She
was
a
pleasant
-
looking
woman
of
about
forty
,
with
a
deep
voice
,
almost
manly
in
its
stentorian
tones
,
and
had
a
large
sensible
square
body
,
with
feet
to
match
—
these
last
encased
in
good
thick
boots
.
Her
conversation
,
I
soon
found
,
was
couched
in
the
telegraphic
style
.
“
Weeds
grow
like
house
afire
.
Can
’
t
keep
even
with
’
em
.
Shall
press
you
in
.
Better
be
careful
.
”
“
I
’
m
sure
I
shall
be
only
too
delighted
to
make
myself
useful
,
”
I
responded
.
“
Don
’
t
say
it
.
Never
does
.
Wish
you
hadn
’
t
later
.
”
“
You
’
re
a
cynic
,
Evie
,
”
said
John
,
laughing
.
“
Where
’
s
tea
to
-
day
—
inside
or
out
?
”
