Then, as there was still no movement from the bathroom door, and we none of us had a grapple left in us, we called "time."
Mervyn sat up on the edge of the bed sourly regarding the bedraggled Queenie.
"In rags once more, twenty pounds' worth of georgette, charmeuse and ninon whatisname torn to shreds!" he groaned. "Oh, you tom-boy, you!"
"Come and dig these damn whalebones out of my ribs," said she.
I staggered across the room and opening the bathroom door, peered within.
"Any sign of our friend Sherlock, the spy-hound?" Mervyn enquired.
"Yes," said I. "He's tumbled in a dead faint into the bath!"
XXIII
A FAUX PAS
When we have finished slaying for the day, have stropped our gory sabres, hung our horses up to dry and are sitting about after mess, girths slackened and pipes aglow, it is a favourite pastime of ours to discuss what we are going to do after the War.