We had dinner early, for his sake, and it was hardly more than half-past nine when he called me and told me he was ready for me to come in.
He was not in bed yet, however, but only sitting down, half undressed, in the midst of all the disturbed treasures of his room. The doors and drawers of his wardrobe stood open, as did also the drawers under his toilet glass, and one or two trunks which he had pulled out from beneath the bed.
"It's very good to be back again and see all the dear old things." He nodded at the general confusion. "You don't know how I think of them when I'm out there."
"But you don't hate being out there?"
"No. Because I'm in the right place. It's my duty to be there. I should hate myself if I were not there. You wouldn't have me anywhere else, would you?"
"No, Little Yeogh Wough, I wouldn't have you anywhere else. I couldn't have the boy who has been the pride of my life anywhere else now but in the fighting line. I am so proud of you, because I know you are a splendid soldier. To be adjutant at your age—why, it's wonderful!"
He glanced half backward at me, smiling. Something in his eye startled me.
"Roland! Do you know that you looked almost wild at that moment?"
"Did I? I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've unlearned a lot of civilisation. I've thrown over a lot of prejudices, too. I've come to have a great respect for the Colonials. I always did think a heap of the Canadians, but still not enough. And I used to think the Australians a touchy people, but now I know they're not. Oh, I'm a different boy in some ways from the boy who went out, Big Yeogh Wough!... What have you been writing out those lines of Laurence Binyon's for?"
He had caught sight of my large black handwriting on a sheet of paper lying on his table.