Halfway through, apparently yielding to panic, he sought to return to fresh air and the light of day, but her hands ruthlessly seized the elaborate crochet edging, and pulled and tugged it down mercilessly towards his shoulders until his distorted features appeared at the hole in front with a pop, and she clapped her hands in delight.
"It fits you like a glove," she cried, "and though your nose is a bit red you look quite handsome."
"I'm being strangled," he gasped, clutching at his throat; "take it off!"
"In time of war," she observed, "we all have to put up with a little inconvenience. I shall soon be living on turnips, for instance, and you know how I hate them."
With a strange gurgling in his throat, he collapsed on the Chesterfield. His face grew purple, his eyes bulged and rolled, his veins swelled, his head dropped forward. She grew alarmed.
"Are you really choking?" she exclaimed. "Here, take your hands away. Let me help! Good gracious! Darling! Oh! Whatever shall I do?" She sprang for her scissors, and in a moment the helmet lay on the carpet hopelessly mutilated.
"Thanks," he replied, smoothing his ruffled hair. "In another minute the Germans would have missed their billet."
"Neither you nor Dick will be able to wear it now," she said, and her lip trembled.
"Dick won't," he said, "and as a matter of fact I'm going to."
"How can you?" And there was a catch in her voice.