Things were whirling round Coke. He grasped the edge of the sofa with both hands, and looked blankly at us.
“Me!” he gasped, “me! at a christening! What the devil—me a godfather! No, I’m damned if I can!”
“My dear Coke,” I answered, “calm yourself. Of course you can—you must! A man with the Victoria Cross cannot get out of these things so easily. Look at me—a baker’s dozen at least.”
“Gad,” he replied, wiping his brow, “I’d rather get the Cross again.”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “It’s a duty. Somebody did it for us, and we keep up the tradition. Besides, it’s unlucky to have to ask twice.”
I had no authority for this last statement, but it seemed to go. Coke leaned back for ease in breathing.
“But I’ve never done anything of the kind,” he almost whispered. “I shall shake like a recruit. I shan’t know what to do—I shall get mixed up with the bridesmaids——”
The Colonel’s notions as to the procedure of christenings were undoubtedly vague. I looked at Mrs. Gervase.
“This is not a wedding,” I said, “but a christening. That’s all right, Coke. You shall wear your uniform and grasp the hilt of your sword all the time. You’ll do.”
“But—but—hang it, Butterfield, what about the family? You’ll pardon me, ladies, but I—you are the only members I am happy enough to know.”