“If you like to put it that way.”
“You’re an [v]effeminate little creature!” cried Oliver, losing his temper. “And I’m through with you. Go sit up and beg for biscuits.”
“Stop!” shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger, which shook him from head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown flapping about him, and threw it wide open.
“This is my house,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to ask you to get out of it.”
And when the door was shut on Oliver, he threw himself, shaken, on the couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot and swab decks! It was madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it would be excruciating discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at such martyrdom! It was intolerable; and Doggie remained justly indignant the whole day long.
II
Then the war came. Doggie Trevor was both patriotic and polite. Having a fragment of the British army in his house, he did his best to make it comfortable. By January he had no doubt that the empire was in peril, that it was every man’s duty to do his bit. He welcomed the newcomers with open arms, having unconsciously abandoned his attitude of superiority over mere brawn. It was every patriotic Englishman’s duty to encourage brawn. He threw himself heart and soul into the entertainment of officers and men. They thought Doggie a capital fellow.
“My dear chap,” one would protest, “you’re spoiling us. I don’t say we don’t like it and aren’t grateful. We are. But we’re supposed to rough it—to lead the simple life. You’re treating us too well.”
“Impossible!” Doggie would reply. “Don’t I know what we owe you fellows? In what other way can a helpless, delicate being like myself show his gratitude and in some sort of way serve his country?”
When the sympathetic guest would ask what was the nature of his malady, Doggie would tap his chest vaguely and reply: