“Rummy devil,” confided Torrington to Peter and Bromley, as they strolled downstairs. “I was in his battery at Le Cateau. Brave! My hat—” this from a V.C.—“if his wife knew how he really got that D.S.O. she’d have a fit.”
“Tell me,” said Peter. But Torrington, who won his own “gong” at the same time, grew suddenly shy; broke off the conversation.
They descended to the cellar-like dancing-room, found it crowded. Rag-time thumped; lights blazed; couples slithered. Purves, too gentlemanly for words, was already partnering Mrs. Armitage: Pettigrew had taken the Colonel’s wife: Mrs. Mallory, despite her husband’s jocular entreaties, refused to dance: Major Lodden was grousing to Patricia.
“How about another liqueur?” suggested Torrington.
“I don’t think we’d better join the Gunners after all,” laughed Bromley to Peter: but he went to the bar with them just the same. There, they found the Weasel, drinking brandy-and-soda.
“You youngsters had better not drink any more tonight,” he commanded. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” from Torrington, “that I quite approve of officers dancing in their khaki.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t”—the Colonel’s blue eyes hardened—“but the ladies insist.”
They stood chatting till the music stopped. None of the four had drunk too much: but each of them, according to his capacity, had had quite enough. Bromley detailed a South African experience; Torrington capped it with a story of the Retreat; the Colonel listened professionally.
Peter had arrived at that mellow stage when he could regard the failures of our Mr. Jameson from a standpoint of pleasant detachment: in which state he decided that our Mr. Jameson was inclined to take life a little too seriously. During the remainder of the evening—except for the last “John Peel” which Torrington claimed—he and Patricia danced accurately with each other. . . .