"It's sheer waste of time," he told her, "to make anything of wool that colour."
"Is it?" she asked sweetly.
"If there's no more khaki or brown wool left in the shops, you should make something of flannel. Any self-respecting soldier would rather be frost-bitten to death a dozen times than wear a garment of pink wool."
"Do you think so?" asked Margaret, smiling.
"Besides, you really ought to stick to the beaten track—belts, mufflers and mittens. Nobody wants ear-muffs."
"This is going to be a coat," she said, holding it up and surveying it with satisfaction.
"A coat?—that handful of pink, a coat? That feeble likeness of an egg-cosy, a coat? A pink woollen coat for a British soldier! My poor friend over there in the trenches, whoever you are, may Heaven help you! And may Heaven forgive you, Margaret, for this night's work!"
"I shan't finish it to-night—it'll take days. And he'll be very proud of it, I know."
"Who will?"
"The soldier-boy will. Bless his heart; he's a born fighter—anyone can see it with half an eye. Mabel says——"