“I’m staying with my uncle, Major Wilkinson,” he said. “My name’s Sibthorp.”
“Well, I’m not doing anything at the moment. I’ve only just been demobbed. I may possibly go back to Oxford. But I’d rather make some money. There’s talk of the mater setting me up as a chicken-farmer. There’s a devil of a lot of eggs wanted.”
“And what did you do in the war?”
“I was in the Air Force. Jolly lucky too. I never had a scratch.”
“But you scratched a Hun or two, I hope?”
“I fancy I did,” he said.
“Any medals?” I said.
“I got the D.S.O.,” he replied simply.
“You must let me shake your hand,” I said, “but remember that it is entirely without prejudice to the other matter. Do you happen to know how Miss Holt feels about it?”