LATE AND SOON: A NOVEL & 8 SHORT STORIES. E. M. Delafield

at the detached length of rusty links with some dismay when she reached his side.

      "It's quite all right—it's been done before. It doesn't matter at all."

      "I'm terribly sorry," said the young man. "I can't imagine how it happened. I didn't think I'd been so violent."

      "I'm sure you weren't. The chain is very old, and every time it breaks somebody hooks it on again without mending it properly. Is there anything I can do for you? Won't you come in?"

      "Thanks very much. I wondered if I could see Lady Arbell for a few minutes?"

      He looked at her questioningly.

      "I am Lady Arbell. Do come in."

      The officer, who was apparently shy, muttered something about being very wet and scraped his boots with prolonged violence on the iron scraper at the door.

      Valentine stepped inside, giving him time, and pulled off her own gum-boots. Then she turned round again.

      "I'm afraid I don't know your name," she said apologetically.

      At the same time she remembered, with a little inward flash of amusement, her daughter Jessica's repeated assurances that no one, no one in the world, ever asked anybody's name now. It just wasn't ever done.

      But Valentine knew that she would continue to do it.

      "Cyril Banks," said the young man. "Lieutenant Banks—1st Battalion——" And he added the name of his regiment.

      As if fearing that he might have been guilty of a too great formality he finished with a thoughtfully-spoken pronouncement:

      "I'm usually—in fact always—called Buster."

      "Do come in," said Valentine.

      With a final scrape, and a final mutter that denoted apology but was indistinguishable, Lieutenant Banks came in.

      The General was still sitting by the fire and Valentine introduced the young man to him. She knew that her brother would be very slightly pleased and stimulated by the presence of any visitor, even one whom he would neither see, nor wish to see, ever again.

      Perhaps, however, they would see Lieutenant Banks again. He had come to enquire, with diffidence and apologies, whether Lady Arbell would consider the billeting of two officers. One of them was his own Colonel, the other one he could not as yet indicate.

      "It's just a case of morning and evening," he said, as though in explanation. "I mean, they'd be out all day and they'd probably be away quite a lot, too, on various exercises and things. I don't know whether all your rooms are full up?"

      "No, not now. We've got three evacuee children, but they're in a wing at the back. There are three empty rooms in the front of the house, though I do try to keep one in case any relation who's been bombed out of London should want to come here."

      "Oh, rather," said Banks. "Well, of course, two rooms would be perfectly okay."

      "This house hasn't got nearly as many bedrooms as you might suppose, from the look of it," General Levallois observed. "And only one bathroom."

      "Really, sir," respectfully returned Lieutenant Banks.

      He sounded sympathetically dismayed, but Valentine guessed that he had not expected more than one bathroom. If he knew anything at all about houses like Coombe, he knew that they never did have more than one bathroom and that one a converted dressing-room, very cold and with an inadequate supply of hot water.

      "Would you like to see the rooms?" she asked.

      Lieutenant Banks wouldn't dream of troubling her. He was certain the rooms would be marvellous.

      Looking shyer than ever—he was a very fair youth and blushed conspicuously—he made a number of statements regarding the conditions of the billeting of officers and their batmen.

      Valentine listened with as much attention as though she had not heard exactly the same thing before, from representatives of the three different regiments that had previously been stationed in the neighbourhood and then sent elsewhere.

      In each case they had said that she would be notified within the week of a decision, and in each case she had heard not another word on the subject. To the earnest and innocent Lieutenant Banks, who looked scarcely more than twenty years old, Valentine gave no hint of these previous experiences.

      General Levallois was asking the Colonel's name.

      "Lonergan, sir."

      "Irish," said the General, without inflection.

      "Yes, sir."

      The General said coldly that he should hope to have the pleasure of meeting Colonel Lonergan one of these days.

      There was a pause.

      Valentine began to talk about the neighbourhood, to ask whether Lieutenant Banks knew Devon already, to ascertain from him that his own part of the world was Northampton, and that before the war he had worked for one year in his father's insurance office.

      She knew that he wished to go, but was finding it impossible to get up and take his leave.

      She offered him a cigarette from a box on the table.

      Lieutenant Banks thanked her very much, said that he didn't smoke, and talked for several minutes about the cigarette shortage, and also told a story of an uncle who had visited the East Coast and found all the shops full of cigarettes, matches, sweets and chocolates with nobody to buy them.

      Valentine made the rejoinders long grown familiar and the General contributed an occasional observation.

      Lieutenant Banks, looking disturbed and uneasy, still sat on.

      Suddenly there sounded an outburst of barking from both the dogs. The spaniel subsided at a ferocious-sounding order from General Levallois, but the pup dashed forward excitedly, springing from side to side and making a deafening clamour.

      The glass doors were pushed open and left swinging as Jess came in.

      Her first greeting was for her dog.

      "Hullo, aunt Sophy! Down, like a good dog, down! Darling little dog! Get down."

      The puppy leapt upon her, trying to lick her face, and Jess picked it up and carried it bodily across the hall.

      "Hallo!"

      "This is Lieutenant Banks—my daughter Jessica."

      Banks stood up and Jess said "Hallo" again and shifted the wriggling dog underneath one arm.

      "Sorry about the awful row, uncle Reggie. Hallo, Sally!"

      The spaniel's tail flumped upon the floor in acknowledgment.

      "I say, what do you call your dog?" the young soldier demanded—speaking in a quite new, much more natural and animated voice.

      "Aunt Sophy. Actually, she's the exact image of an aunt I have, called Sophy. Even mummie admits that. It isn't her sister, or anything like that. In fact she's a great-aunt."

      "Does she know?"

      "We don't think so. She's only once been here since I had the puppy and of course I said I hadn't yet decided on a name. Actually, she kept on making rather dim suggestions, like Rover and Tray and Faithful."

      Lieutenant Banks began to laugh, and Jess laughed too.

      Valentine felt relieved.

      She leant back in her chair and looked at her younger daughter.

      Primrose resented being looked at so intensely that her mother could hardly ever bear to do so, although no single word had passed between them on the subject.

      Jess was not only quite unself-conscious, but she was scarcely sufficiently interested in people to notice whether they looked at her or whether they didn't. She was tall and slight, much fairer than Valentine had ever been, and with exactly Humphrey's squarely-shaped, open face, with a well-cut, firm, insensitive mouth, rather thick