One hour is gone.
Even if I can't sleep, I shall pass the other two trying to rest, in my
narrow bed, which is close to Dierdre's.
CHAPTER XXVI
This is the next day. Mother Beckett is better, and I've been praised by
the _medecin major_ for my nursing. We've got our luggage from
Compiegne, and may be here for days. We shall miss the pleasure of
travelling to Amiens with the war correspondents, who must go without
us, and we women will get no glimpse of the British front!
Now I'm going to tell you about the incident which has made me almost
love Dierdre O'Farrell--a miracle, it would have seemed two weeks ago,
when my best mental pet name for her was "little cat!"
When I wrote last night, I mentioned that the room Mother Beckett has in
this little hotel had been intended for the wife of a French officer
coming out of hospital. Another room was prepared for that lady, and it
happened to be the one next door to Mother Beckett's. Through the thin
partition wall I heard voices, a man's and a woman's, talking in French.
I couldn't make out the words--in fact, I tried not to!--but the woman's
tones were soft and sweet as the coo of a dove. I pictured her beautiful
and young, and I was sure from her way of speaking that she adored her
husband. The two come into my story presently, but I think it should
begin with a walk that Brian and Dierdre (and Sirius, of course) took
together.
With me shut up in Mother Beckett's room, my blind brother and Julian
O'Farrell's sister were thrown more closely together even than before.
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