“Quite,” said Doggie.
“It seems rather roughing it, here at the Deanery, Mr. Marmaduke, after what you’ve been accustomed to at the Hall,” said Peddle.
“That’s so,” replied Doggie. “And it’s martyrdom compared to what it is in the trenches. There we always have a major-general to lace our boots and a field-marshall to hand us coffee.”
Peddle looked blank, being utterly unable to comprehend the nature of a joke.
A little later, when Doggie went downstairs to dinner, he found Peggy alone in the drawing-room.
“Now you look more like a Christian gentleman,” she said. “Confess: it’s much more comfortable than your wretched private’s uniform.”
“I’m not quite so sure,” he replied, somewhat ruefully, indicating his dinner jacket, which was tightly constricted beneath the arms. “Already I’ve had to slit my waistcoat down the back. Poor old Peddle will have a fit when he sees it. I’ve grown a bit since these elegant rags were made for me.”
Oliver came in—in khaki. Doggie jumped up and pointed to him.
“Look here, Peggy,” he said; “I’ll be sent to the guard-room.”
Oliver laughed. “I did change my uniform,” he said. “I don’t know where my dinner clothes are.”