“And what kind of a soldier?” the Dean asked politely.
“There’s not a finer one in all the armies of the earth,” said Oliver.
After much further talk the dressing-gong boomed softly through the house.
“You’ve got the green room, Marmaduke,” said Peggy. “The one with the Chippendale stuff you used to covet so much.”
“I haven’t got much to change into,” laughed Doggie.
“You’ll find Peddle up there waiting for you,” she replied.
And when Doggie entered the green room there he found Peddle, who welcomed him with tears of joy and a display of all the finikin luxuries of the toilet and adornment which he had left behind at Denby Hall. There were pots of pomade and face-cream, and nail-polish; bottles of hair-wash and tooth-wash; little boxes and brushes for the moustache, half a dozen gleaming razors, an array of brushes and combs and manicure-set in tortoise-shell with his crest in silver, bottles of scent with spray attachments; the onyx bowl of bath salts beside the hip-bath ready to be filled from the ewers of hot and cold water—the Deanery, old-fashioned house, had but one family bath-room; the deep purple silk dressing-gown over the foot-rail of the bed, the silk pyjamas in a lighter shade spread out over the pillow, the silk underwear and soft-fronted shirt fitted with his ruby and diamond sleeve-links, hung up before the fire to air; the dinner jacket suit laid out on the glass-topped Chippendale table, with black tie and delicate handkerchief; the silk socks carefully tucked inside out, the glossy pumps with the silver shoe-horn laid across them.
“My God! Peddle,” cried Doggie, scratching his closely cropped head. “What the devil’s all this?”
Peddle, grey, bent, uncomprehending, regarded him blankly.
“All what, sir?”