“Our Mr. Jameson.”
“Undoubtedly,” pronounced the Oxford man in his best Balliol drawl, “undoubtedly. As you say, Pettigrew, a quaint bird. But efficient. Very efficient. His language, on the other hand, reminds me very strongly of our friend the Weasel’s. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does talk. . . . You should have heard him in riding-school this afternoon. Sergeant Murgatroyd positively blushed.”
“Sergeant Murgatroyd, like all these old Army fellows, pulls his horses about too much. No hands!” The speaker, of course, was Hutchinson.
There came a smart rap on the door; and a crisp voice asked, “May I come in?” Everybody rose.
“Rather, sir. Have a glass of port, won’t you, sir? Take a chair, sir. Won’t you take off your things, sir?”
Colonel Stark, very slim and red-haired, looking—except for the lines about his eyes—almost a boy himself, accepted the many invitations. Purves filled a glass for him, and they all sat down again.
“Where’s that fellow Straker?” asked the Weasel. “In his room? I wonder if one of you chaps would mind fetching him for me. Conway anywhere about? Out, is he?” A chuckle. “At the Palladium, I suppose. . . .”
The Palladium is Brighton’s most palatial picture-house. Its attraction for the petticoat-loving Conway was well-known. Every one laughed: and the Colonel beamed round the table.
“We shall have to get Conway married, sir,” remarked Purves: and went off to find Charlie Straker.
“I suppose you youngsters know we’re moving into camp next week.”