They were working things for John--May, handkerchiefs, and Clare, a
comforter; their voices were soft and charged with omens, their eyes
were bright with the drama of the event, as though they had been
supporting some young Christian relation before his encounter with the
lions. John hated more and more and more.
But more terrible to him than his sisters was his mother. He was too
young to understand what his departure meant to her, but he knew that
there was something real here that needed comforting. He wanted to
comfort her, and yet hated the atmosphere of emotion that he felt in
himself as well as in her. They ought to know, he argued, that the least
little thing would make him break down like an ass and behave as no man
should, and yet they were doing everything.... Oh, if only Tom were
here! Then, at any rate, would be brutal common-sense. There were
special meals for him during this fortnight, and an eager inviting of
his opinion as to how the days should be spent. On the last night of all
they were to go to the theatre--a real play this time, none of your
pantomime!
There was, moreover, all the business of clothes--fine, rich, stiff new
garments--a new Eton jacket, a round black coat, a shining bowler-hat,
new boots.
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