She laid her poor husband out with a poker. They could
not keep him in hospital. He shied at an immediate renewal of
conjugal life. He had no relations or intimate friends in
Wellingsford. Where was the poor devil to go?
"I thought I might bring him along here and let the Marigolds look
after him for a week or two."
"Indeed," said I. "I admire your airy ways."
"I know you do," she replied, "and that's why I've brought him."
"Is that the fellow?"
She laughed. "You're right first time. How did you guess?" She
scrambled to her feet. "I'll fetch him in."
She fetched him in, a haggard, broad-shouldered man with a back
like a sloping plank of wood. He wore corporal's stripes. He
saluted and stood at rigid attention.
"This is Tufton," said Betty.
I despatched her in search of Marigold. To Tufton I said,
regarding him with what, without vanity, I may term an expert eye:
"You're an old soldier."
"Yes, sir."
"Guards?"
His eyes brightened. "Yes, sir. Seven years in the Grenadiers.
Then two years out. Rejoined on outbreak of war, sir."
I rubbed my hands together in satisfaction. "I'm an old soldier
too," said I
"So Sister told me, sir.
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