It would have been the easy response. But his aunt would have seen through him and sensed his own concern that the country he loved, though declared victorious, was enjoying no more than its halftime oranges. Though war-stressed and still grieving, they would yet have to keep a weather eye open on fresh rising powers eager to knock a punch-drunk old fighter off his pins.

In the end, he smiled and said simply, “Nor is it the time to throw away our swords, Hetty. I’m keeping mine bright and sharp. Who was it who said, ‘Only the strong are able to bring about peace’?”

“Your Uncle Gerald. Last Tuesday, musing midcrumpet. Though it first could have been Aristotle, perhaps?”

“It was Gerald. Aristotle’s advice, I believe, was, ‘Make war that we may live in peace.’ Unfortunately, the hotheaded youth he tutored, Alexander of Macedon, only heard the first half of the maxim. I have to say, it’s a bit further than I would go, but I see from the unholy gleam in your eye that you, too, are a disciple, Aunt.”

Redfyre smiled and tapped the postcard, not quite ready to let her off the hook yet. “Rosa says she’s coming back. And speaking of tousle-headed young warriors, she’s said nothing about her plans for wedded bliss with Digby Gisbourne.”

“Ah yes. Pity! They were getting along so well. This was entirely unforeseen, but it’s all come to nothing, apparently. The engagement’s off. Rosa was rather looking forward to getting hitched to a rich man with a fine political career ahead of him. Perhaps eventually a knighthood? Sir Digby and Lady Gisbourne? She would have liked that, but—”

“Tell me. If you want a slice of chocolate cake.”

“Digby has given up politics. Since he narrowly escaped a murder charge in the summer, he’s changed. He’s resigned from the party and left the college. Not only that—against all advice, he’s selling off his father’s grocery empire to some chaps called Sainsbury. The Drury Lane Sainsburys.”

“Was it something I said?”

“I shouldn’t think so, darling. I believe it was an old army officer from his father’s past who inspired him to cleanse his soul and his bank account of the pollution of commerce. His co-accused in the murder charge, the Boer War captain, whom I’m sure you remember.”

“Good Lord! Gisbourne’s not taken to tramping the roads, has he? A vagrant’s life and all that?”

Hetty gave a disparaging laugh. “Digby? Never think it! I know John Clare’s romantic view of vagabondage is very fashionable at the moment, but it ought not to be encouraged. On account of its message, as well as its clumping rhythm and jangling rhymes. She recited with mischievous relish:

“He eats (a moment’s stoppage to his song)

The stolen turnip as he goes along.

He talks to none but wends his silent way