“As you wish,” he said. He could not tell if this was a return to her mood of the early morning, the spikiness of it, or if her question about his commission was simple curiosity. Where was she now? Was her excitement in the hospital garden all gone? Was she about to tell him she could not go through with it, not, at least, tomorrow? He studied her; she studied him back. He took up the paper again but did not read out any more from it. He turned the page, turned another and stopped at a map of Portugal. Beneath the map was an account of some fighting at Oporto (On landing we took up our position on a height where we had an uninterrupted view of the town. We could see for several miles in any direction, and distinctly observe the whole of the enemy’s cavalry retreating . . . ). He glanced to the bottom of the column and saw that the correspondent was from the 14th Light Dragoons. A Captain Hawker. Hawker? He didn’t know him, and the 14th had not been on the retreat. He read through the account carefully for any mention of his own regiment but there was none.

“Perhaps we might leave now,” said Emily. “It is very loud in here.”

“Is it?” He folded the paper and passed her her hat. The larger world be damned. His work, his interest, were here. As they left the table, one of the officers, barely old enough for the moustache he wore, inclined his head to them. A courtesy—absurd, touching.