Our Mr. Jameson, whose head was very nearly as good as the Weasel’s own, drained his bumper before replying. “Oh, we’re coming,” he said.
“Douglas will be pleased. Douglas dear,” she called across to her husband, “I’ve got you two new officers.”
By now the whole table, not excepting Bromley, were in that pleasant state when the better-class Englishman becomes almost as talkative as the average foreigner.
“Don’t talk shop in mess, me dear,” beamed Stark: and to Mallory, “How long did it take you to discipline your wife, sir?”
Mallory, (“Sir” by right of age), looked across at his Hetty, said: “Hopeless task, Stark. Hopeless task.”
By general request, the ladies did not rise with the port. They drank the King-Emperor’s health, proposed by Purves as the most junior officer present: a Merry Christmas (Colonel Mallory); and “Gott strafe Germany,” (Major Lodden).
The Weasel looked at his watch. “If you youngsters”—he winked at Mallory—“want to dance, it’s about time we went downstairs.”
Alice rustled out with the ladies: her husband came over to Peter and Bromley; said: “Better come to my office, both of you, the day after tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage it, sir,” replied Bromley. “I may be on duty.”
“Then get some one else to do your duty,” snapped the Weasel. It was the only sign he gave, during the whole evening, of an alcoholic consumption which would have put any ordinary man under the table.