Effete," and Sir Montague smiled as he thought of the eccentric peer's pleasantries.
Yes, she'd be happy enough with that fine brave big sportsman with his sunny face and merry laugh, his gentle and kindly ways, his love of open-air life, games, sport, and all clean strenuous things. Of course she was happy. … Did she ever think of him? … Were there any more children? … (And, as always, at this point, Sir Montague frowned and sighed.)
How he would love a little girl of hers, if she were very, very like her—and how he would hate a boy if he were like Huntingten. No—not hate the boy—hate the idea of her having a boy who was like Huntingten. But how she would love the boy. …
What would he not give to see her! Unseen himself, of course. He hoped he would not get cafard again, when next stationed in the desert. It had been terrible, unspeakably terrible, to feel that resolution was weakening, and that when it failed altogether, he would desert and go in search of her…. Suppose that, with madman's cunning, and with madman's strength, he should be successful in an attempt to reach Tunis—the only possible way for a deserter without money—and should live to reach her, or to be recognised and proclaimed as the lost Sir Montague Merline. Her life in ruins and her children illegitimate—nameless bastards. … It was a horribly disturbing thought, that under the influence of cafard his mind might lose all ideas and memories and wishes except the one great longing to see her again, to clasp her in his arms again, to have and to hold. … Well—he had a lot to be thankful for. So long as Cyrus Hiram Milton was his bunk-mate it was not likely to happen.
