Robert Fawcett

Saturday Evening Post

i

“Considered severally,” said Troy, coming angrily into the studio, “a carbuncle, a month’s furlough and a husband returning from the antipodes don’t sound like the ingredients of a hell-brew. Collectively they amount to precisely that.”

Katti Bostock stepped heavily back from her easel, screwed up her eyes, and squinting dispassionately at her work said: “Why?”

“They’ve telephoned from C.l. Rory’s on his way. He’ll probably get here in about three weeks. By which time I shall have returned, cured of my carbuncle, to the girls in the back room.”

“At least,” said Miss Bostock, scowling hideously at her work, “he won’t have to face the carbuncle. There is that.”

“It’s on my hip.”

“I know that, you owl.”

“Well — but, Katti,” Troy argued, standing beside her friend, “you will allow and must admit, it’s a stinker. You are going it,” she added, squinting at Miss Bostock’s canvas.

“You’ll have to move into the London flat a bit earlier, that’s all.”

“But if only the carbuncle, and Rory and my leave had come together — well, the carbuncle a bit earlier, certainly — we’d have had a fortnight down here together. The A.C. promised us that. Rory’s letters have been full of it. It is tough, Katti, you can’t deny it. And if you so much as look like saying there are worse things in Europe—”

“All right, all right,” said Mis: Bostock, pacifically. “I was only going to point out that it’s reasonably lucky your particular back room and Roderick’s job both happen to be in London. Look for the silver lining, dear,” she added unkindly. “What’s that letter you keep taking in and out of your pocket?”