The Major answered in a voice as clipped as his grey bottle-brush moustache, “Delighted! Dinner's ready. Come along!”
Mr. Lavender saw that he had a mouth which seemed to have a bitt in it; several hairs on a finely rounded head; and an air of efficient and truculent bonhomie tanned and wrinkled by the weather.
The table at which they became seated seemed to one accustomed to frugality to groan with flowers and china and glass; and Mr. Lavender had hardly supped his rich and steaming soup before his fancy took fire; nor did he notice that he was drinking from a green glass in which was a yellow fluid.
“I get Army rations,” said the Major, holding a morsel of fillet of beef towards Blink. “Nice dog, Mr. Lavender.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Lavender, ever delighted that his favourite should receive attention, “she is an angel.”
“Too light,” said the Major, “and a bit too narrow in front; but a nice dog. What's your view of the war?”
Before Mr. Lavender could reply he felt Aurora's foot pressing his, and heard her say:
“Don Pickwixote's views are after your own heart, Dad; he's for the complete destruction of the Hun.”
“Indeed, yes,” cried Mr. Lavender with shining eyes. “Right and justice demand it. We seek to gain nothing!”
“But we'll take all we can get,” said the Major.