"I do," he said. He extracted from his pocket a bulky and dilapidated pocket-book, from the dusky recesses of which he produced a wad of paper. He unfolded this and smoothed out its many creases, when it disclosed itself as a page torn from the last number of The Sketch which had reached the battalion. It was headed "A Paradise for Wounded Heroes." The first photograph showed Alf's wonderful visitor in nurse's uniform, and beneath it was written, "Miss Isobel FitzPeter, the famous society beauty. She has now left Town altogether and is devoting herself entirely to the Convalescent Home for Officers which she has established at her father's beautiful place, Dunwater Park, of which we give pictures below. Miss FitzPeter has taken entire charge of the administrative work of the Home. We congratulate the fortunate few whose lucky stars will lead them into the care of so fair a pair of hands."
"Umph!" said Bill, when he had inwardly digested this. "So that's 'oo she is! Well, I must say I thought she might 'ave been Lady Something. Why, she ain't even a 'honorable.' You'd better change your mind, Alf, before you get too far. Sure you wouldn't like a princess? Eustace'll get one for you as easy as wink."
But Alf shook his head; he had been thankful to find that the lady of his dreams moved in no more rarefied an atmosphere. It had made her a little more accessible.
Bill continued his study of the page in his hand.
"'Dunwater Park, from the South,'" he read. "Nice little villa enough—'bout the size o' Buckingham Palace. You won't 'ave to turn the kids out of their bedroom when I come week-endin' with you an' the missus there, will you?"
Alf gave a nervous snigger.
"'Dunwater Park, from the North-West,'" pursued Bill. "Yes, it's a big place, but we'll make Eustace put one up for us as'll beat this all to nothing. What's this? 'Group of officers at present under Miss FitzPeter's care.' Look 'appy enough, don't they? Why ain't she in it? If I'd been 'er, I'd 'ave planked meself down in the middle of that photo, I would. 'Ullo, 'ere's one 'oo looks like our Mr. Allen."
"P'raps it is 'im."
"They don't put names, so we can't tell. Ever 'ad yer photo in the papers, Alf?"
"No. 'Ow could I?"