Free The Traitor by Sydney Horler

about his duties, and so on and so forth. Can’t you imagine how infuriated that makes me when all the time I want him to—”
    Mrs. Clinton, feeling that old enemy of hers—the pain in the spine which had kept her more or less of an invalid for so many years—asserting itself, stooped and kissed the girl’s forehead.
    â€œI shouldn’t worry, dear,” she said. “I’m quite sure that everything will come out all right. Remember, Bobby is still very young—he’s only twenty-four—and at the moment he’s so terribly keen on the Army that perhaps everything else has to take a second place.”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind being placed second; it’s being an also-ran that infuriates me,” replied the girl. “Yes, I know Bobby’s young—but that’s when we should enjoy each other—later on we shall be too old.”
    She did not realise what cruel thrusts she was giving her listener—how was this possible when she was so closely concerned with her own affairs?—and Mrs. Clinton gave no sign of her hurt.
    To what an astonishing generation this girl belonged! Its frankness was so disconcerting that one was apt to be appalled by it—at least, at first. Yet, no doubt, it was better so; at any rate, a girl like Rosemary knew what she wanted and was determined to get it if it was at all possible. And Bobby might do a great deal worse, she reflected; this girl belonged to a good family; her father was a prominent banker, and there was money there. In far too many cases nowadays good breeding and wealth did not go together, but she had no doubts concerning Rosemary. The girl was amazingly outspoken, but there could be no question about her being devoted to Bobby. And she was quite old enough to know her own mind: girls of twenty nowadays had developed a remarkable selective capacity, from what she had been able to observe.
    Suddenly the girl gave a cry.
    â€œHere he is!” She stood up. “Oh, Bobby!” Mrs. Clinton heard her mutter, and noticed that Rosemary’s teeth were pressing tightly against her lower lip.
    Standing by her, one hand holding on to the chair back—the pain was very bad now—the older woman watched a young officer, wearing the uniform of the Tank Corps, get out from a taxi, thrust a hand into his pocket and pay the driver off. That the tip had been a liberal one was proved by the man’s smiling and touching his hat in a salute.
    Mrs. Clinton felt her heart swell. This upstanding, handsome young man, who carried the pride of his calling so well and with so much distinction—could it be possible that he belonged to her? At that moment she forgot her pain; even if the physical agony had increased, she would have ignored it: she didn’t wonder that the girl by her side had fallen in love with Bobby—how could any one help admiring him? Even the ridiculous bonnet which the military authorities had ordained that officers in this particular corps should wear did not militate against his appearance. Instead, it gave him a jaunty look which—at least to her mind—was irresistible.
    With swimming eyes, she watched Hannah, the old servant who had acted as “Nanny” to the boy when he was a baby, rush out from the front door, throw both her arms around Bobby’s neck, and hug him as though her faithful heart would break. Then the young officer looked up, saw them at the window, and waved a gloved hand.
    â€œThere you are—all for every one else; nothing for me!” complained Rosemary. “Usually I love old Hannah—but now I feel that I hate her.”
    â€œHush, darling! He’ll be up in a moment.”
    Bobby Wingate entered the room in a rush.
    â€œHullo, Mum!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around his mother. “How’s the poor old back?”
    â€œOh, it’s better, Bobby,” she lied.
    As he was in the act of kissing her, his eyes