"Or go to the infantry," said O'Hagan.
"What the devil d'ye mean, O'Hagan?" said Legge, who belonged to that branch of the Service.
"I really beg your pardon, old chap. I always forget you ain't a cavalry man or a gunner"—remembering Ramp—"you're such a sporting cove. Have another brandy?"
"No, thank you, and I don't see why a fellow shouldn't care for shooting even if he is in the cavalry; it's sport just the same as racing. Besides, Graeme plays polo, don't he?"
"Oh yes, in a way. His real hobby's clothes and cats, though."
"Cats?"
"Yes, sleeps with a cat, I'm told. Jolly for his wife, eh what? Hullo," suddenly breaking off, with a look of well-feigned surprise and concern on his face, for Graeme had risen, and, apparently unconscious of his or the others' presence, was now making his way to the door, "there's the man himself," he added, Hector having disappeared, "now I have done it."
"Good Lord, O'Hagan, why the devil didn't you tell us he was there?" said Brass indignantly. "He must have heard every word."
"Well, if he did, he only knows what all of us think, and..."
"I think we ought to be making a move, O'Hagan," said Legge shortly; "it's past one now, and I'm riding in the first race. Come on, Jackie, you're always an hour decorating."