The father beamed on this man after his own heart,—“youngest major in the army, and should have had the V.C., sir,”—and the butler listened with his professional mask off when Master Georgie spoke of war as it is waged to-day, and his father cross-questioned.
They went out on the terrace to smoke among the roses, and the shadow of the old house lay long across the wonderful English foliage, which is the only living green in the world.
“Perfect! By Jove, it’s perfect!” Georgie was looking at the round-bosomed woods beyond the home paddock, where the white pheasant boxes were ranged; and the golden air was full of a hundred sacred scents and sounds. Georgie felt his father’s arm tighten in his.
“It’s not half bad—but hodie mihi, cras tibi, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be turning up some fine day with a girl under your arm, if you haven’t one now, eh?”
“You can make your mind easy, sir. I haven’t one.”
“Not in all these years?” said the mother.
“I hadn’t time, mummy. They keep a man pretty busy, these days, in the service, and most of our mess are unmarried, too.”
“But you must have met hundreds in society—at balls, and so on?”
“I’m like the Tenth, mummy: I don’t dance.”
“Don’t dance! What have you been doing with yourself, then—backing other men’s bills?” said the father.