She may not have known
the difference between a platoon and a howitzer, and have
conceived the woolliest notions of the nature of her son's
command, but the Victoria Cross was a matter on which her ideas
were both definite and correct. She had spent the morning at the
telephone receiving calls of congratulation. A great sheaf of
telegrams had arrived. Two or three of them were from the High and
Mighty of the Military Hierarchy. She was in such a twitter of joy
that she almost forgot her anxiety as to his wounds.
"Do you think he knows? I telegraphed to him at once."
"So did I."
She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.
"How long would it take for a telegram to reach him?"
"You may be sure he has it by now," said I, "and it has given him
a prodigious appetite for lunch."
Her face clouded over. "That horrid tinned stuff. It's so
dangerous. I remember once Mary's aunt--or was it Cook's aunt--
one of them any way--nearly died of eating tinned lobster--
ptomaine poisoning. I've always told Leonard not to touch it.
"They don't give Colonels and V.C.s tinned lobster at Boulogne," I
answered cheerfully. "He's living now on the fat of the land.
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