Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie

said David Hunter. “Possessing no intellect at all, Rosaleen has always been a lucky girl—which is just as well. Gordon Cloade was a strong old man. He was sixty-two. He might easily have lived for twenty years. He might have lived even longer. That wouldn’t have been much fun for Rosaleen, would it? She was twenty-four when she married him. She’s only twenty-six now.”
    â€œShe looks even younger,” said Lynn.
    David looked across the table. Rosaleen Cloade was crumbling her bread. She looked like a nervous child.
    â€œYes,” he said thoughtfully. “She does. Complete absence of thought, I suppose.”
    â€œPoor thing,” said Lynn suddenly.
    David frowned.
    â€œWhy the pity?” he said sharply. “ I’ll look after Rosaleen.”
    â€œI expect you will.”
    He scowled.
    â€œAny one who tries to do down Rosaleen has got me to deal with! And I know a good many ways of making war—some of them not strictly orthodox.”
    â€œAm I going to hear your life history now?” asked Lynn coldly.
    â€œA very abridged edition.” He smiled. “When the war broke out I saw no reason why I should fight for England. I’m Irish. But like all the Irish, I like fighting. The Commandos had an irresistiblefascination for me. I had some fun but unfortunately I got knocked out with a bad leg wound. Then I went to Canada and did a job of training fellows there. I was at a loose end when I got Rosaleen’s wire from New York saying she was getting married! She didn’t actually announce that there would be pickings, but I’m quite sharp at reading between the lines. I flew there, tacked myself on to the happy pair and came back with them to London. And now”—he smiled insolently at her—“ Home is the sailor, home from the sea. That’s you! And the Hunter home from the Hill. What’s the matter?”
    â€œNothing,” said Lynn.
    She got up with the others. As they went into the drawing-room, Rowley said to her: “You seemed to be getting on quite well with David Hunter. What were you talking about?”
    â€œNothing particular,” said Lynn.

Five
    â€œD avid, when are we going back to London? When are we going to America?”
    Across the breakfast table, David Hunter gave Rosaleen a quick surprised glance.
    â€œThere’s no hurry, is there? What’s wrong with this place?”
    He gave a swift appreciative glance round the room where they were breakfasting. Furrowbank was built on the side of a hill and from the windows one had an unbroken panorama of sleepy English countryside. On the slope of the lawn thousands of daffodils had been planted. They were nearly over now, but a sheet of golden bloom still remained.
    Crumbling the toast on her plate, Rosaleen murmured:
    â€œYou said we’d go to America—soon. As soon as it could be managed.”
    â€œYes—but actually it isn’t managed so easily. There’s priority.Neither you nor I have any business reasons to put forward. Things are always difficult after a war.”
    He felt faintly irritated with himself as he spoke. The reasons he advanced, though genuine enough, had the sound of excuses. He wondered if they sounded that way to the girl who sat opposite him. And why was she suddenly so keen to go to America?
    Rosaleen murmured: “You said we’d only be here for a short time. You didn’t say we were going to live here.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Warmsley Vale—and Furrowbank? Come now?”
    â€œNothing. It’s them —all of them!”
    â€œThe Cloades?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s just what I get a kick out of,” said David. “I like seeing their smug faces eaten up with envy and malice. Don’t grudge me my fun, Rosaleen.”
    She said in a low troubled voice:
    â€œI wish you didn’t feel like that. I don’t like it.”
    â€œHave some spirit,