Doggie was horrified. “I’m not fit,” he said, “I’ve no constitution. I’m an impossibility.”
“You thought you had nerves until you learned to drive the car,” she answered. “Then you discovered that you hadn’t. You fancy you’ve a weak heart. Perhaps if you walked thirty miles a day, you would discover that you hadn’t that, either. And so with the rest of it.”
He swung round toward her. “Do you think I’m shamming so as to get out of serving in the army?” he demanded.
“Not consciously. Unconsciously, I think you are. What does your doctor say?”
Doggie was taken aback. He had no doctor, having no need for one. He made confession of the surprising fact. Peggy smiled.
“That proves it,” she said. “I don’t believe you have anything wrong with you. This is plain talking. It’s horrid, I know, but it’s best to get through with it once and for all.”
Some men would have taken deep offense, but Doggie, conscientious if ineffective, was gnawed for the first time by a suspicion that Peggy might possibly be right. He desired to act honorably.
“I’ll do,” he said, “whatever you think proper.”
“Good!” said Peggy. “Get Doctor Murdoch to overhaul you thoroughly with a view to the army. If he passes you, take a commission.”