The cottage door was still open. In the aperture stood
the younger of the two women, Briggs's sister. She waved to me and
smiled. It was evident that it had struck her that I ought to have been
thanked for my services, and she was expressing this, cordially if
belatedly. I waved my hand in return, and hastened up the street towards
the tram.
My hurry was fruitless. I missed my train in Bradford, and stayed the
night at an hotel, thus (with appropriate but improper extravagance)
concluding this particular performance in the role of travelling courier
to a distinguished invalid. As I sat over a sumptuous table d'hote--this
was long before the submarine blockade and the food restrictions--I
wondered what Briggs's wife said to Briggs; and I made up a story about
it. But what I have written above is not a story, it is the unadorned
truth, which I could not have invented and which is perhaps better than
the story. In his courier's presence Briggs addressed not one word to
his wife, and his wife addressed not one word to him; nor did his sister
or his brother-in-law. Nor did any of this trio address one word to me.
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