It left Elizabeth sorer and more puzzled than before.
Desmond too! She had written to him also from London a long chat about all the things he cared about at Mannering--the animals, Pamela's pony, the old keeper, the few pheasants still left in the woods, and what Perley said of the promise of a fair partridge season.

And the boy had replied immediately.

Desmond's Eton manners were rarely caught napping; but the polite little note--stiff and frosty--might have been written to a complete stranger.
What _was_ in their minds?
How could she put it right?
Well, anyhow, Desmond could not at that moment be wasting time or thought on home worries, or her own supposed misdemeanours.

Where was the radiant boy now?
In some artillery camp, she supposed, behind the lines, waiting for his ordeal of blood and fire.

Waiting with the whole Army--the whole Empire--for that leap of the German monster which must be met and parried and struck down before England could breathe again.