"I expect it will be ripping," I agreed, as we took the turning that led us back by a roundabout way to the camp again. "Wasn't that invitation-card for it rather sweet? You know he'd painted all those crests and flowers and things himself."
"He did?" said Elizabeth, "he or Captain Holiday, d'you mean?"
I turned to her a little puzzled.
"Captain Holiday—or who?" I said.
Quickly Elizabeth slipped out—"or Colonel Fielding, of course!"
Then she laughed, and went on quickly: "What rot!" and she turned aside to pull a wild rose out of the hedge above the pond.
"Of course I wasn't thinking about what I was saying. It is Peggy's sergeant who paints those things, isn't it?" she said.
I looked at her.
With her face still turned to the hedge she went on talking rather quickly.
"Yes; Peggy told me her boy was 'very clever at anything in the artistic line.' He does designs for belts, and mats, and cushion covers himself, and they're sold at Red Cross sales; and the most lovely necklaces made out of beads of wallpaper!" pursued Elizabeth, as if she were interested in nothing on earth so much as in the artistic productions of Peggy's boy.