“I think I’m pretty cheerful,” said Doggie.
“Oh, you’re not grousing and you’re making the best of it. You’re perfectly splendid. But you’re philosophizing such a lot over it. The only thing before us is to do in Germany, Prussian militarism, and so on, and then there’ll be peace, and we’ll all be happy again.”
“Have you met many men who say that?” he asked.
“Heaps. Oliver was only talking about it the other day.”
“Oliver?”
At his quick challenge he could not help noticing a little cloud, as of vexation, pass over her face.
“Yes, Oliver,” she replied, with an unnecessary air of defiance. “He has been over here on short leave. Went back a fortnight ago. He’s as cheerful as cheerful can be. Jollier than ever he was. I took him out in the dear old two-seater and he insisted on driving to show how they drove at the Front—and it’s only because the Almighty must have kept a special eye on a Dean’s daughter that I’m here to tell the tale.”
“You saw a lot of him, I suppose?” said Doggie.
A flush rose on Peggy’s cheek. “Of course. He was staying at the Deanery most of his time. I wrote to you about it. I’ve made a point of telling you everything. I even told you about the two-seater.”
“So you did,” said Doggie. “I remember.” He smiled. “Your description made me laugh. Oliver’s a major now, isn’t he?”