Tommy Beresford removed his overcoat in the hall of the flat. He hung it up with some care, taking time over it. His hat went carefully on the next peg.
He squared his shoulders, affixed a resolute smile to his face and walked into the sitting room, where his wife sat knitting a Balaclava helmet in khaki wool.
It was the spring of 1940.
Mrs. Beresford gave him a quick glance and then busied herself by knitting at a furious rate. She said after a minute or two:
“Any news in the evening paper?”
“The Blitzkrieg is coming, hurray, hurray! Things look bad in France.”
“It’s a depressing world at the moment.”
There was a pause and then Tommy said:
“Well, why don’t you ask? No need to be so damned tactful.”
“I know,” admitted Tuppence. “There is something about conscious tact that is very irritating. But then it irritates you if I do ask. And anyway I don’t need to ask. It’s written all over you.”
“I wasn’t conscious of looking a Dismal Desmond.”
“No, darling,” said Tuppence. “You had a kind of nailed to the mast smile which was one of the most heartrending things I have ever seen.”
Tommy said with a grin:
“No, was it really as bad as all that?”
“And more! Well, come on, out with it. Nothing doing?”
“Nothing doing. They don’t want me in any capacity. I tell you, Tuppence, it’s pretty thick when a man of forty-six is made to feel like a doddering grandfather. Army, Navy, Air Force, Foreign Office, one and all say the same thing—I’m too old. I may be required later.”
