“I’m afraid, Peggy dear,” he said, with his patient, pleasant smile, “you are rather sheltered from the war in Durdlebury.”
She cried out indignantly.
“Indeed we’re not. The newspapers come to Durdlebury, don’t they? And everybody’s doing something. We have the war all around us. We’ve even succeeded in getting wounded soldiers in the Cottage Hospital. Nancy Murdoch is a V.A.D. and scrubs floors. Cissy James is driving a Y.M.C.A. motor-car in Calais. Jane Brown-Gore is nursing in Salonika. We read all their letters. Personally, I can’t do much, because mother has crocked up and I’ve got to run the Deanery. But I’m slaving from morning to night. Only last week I got up a concert for the wounded. Alone I did it—and it takes some doing in Durdlebury, now that you’re away and the Musical Association has perished of inanition. Old Dr. Flint’s no earthly good, since Tom, the eldest son—you remember—was killed in Mesopotamia. So I did it all, and it was a great success. We netted four hundred and seventy pounds. And whenever I can get a chance, I go round the hospital and talk and read to the men and write their letters, and hear of everything. I don’t think you’ve any right to say we’re out of touch with the war. In a sort of way, I know as much about it as you do.”
Doggie in some perplexity scratched his head, a thing which he would never have done at Durdlebury. With humorous intent he asked:
“Do you know as much as Oliver?”
“Oliver’s a field officer,” she replied tartly, and Doggie felt snubbed. “But I’m sure he agrees with everything I say.” She paused and, in a different tone, went on: “Don’t you think it’s rather rotten to have this piffling argument when I’ve come all this long way to see you?”
“Forgive me, Peggy,” he said penitently; “I appreciate your coming more than I can say.”
She was not appeased. “And yet you don’t give me credit for playing the game.”
“What game?” he asked with a smile.
“Surely you ought to know.”