“That’s so,” said Doggie. “And it’s martyrdom compared with what it is in the trenches. There we always have a major-general to lace up our boots, and a field-marshal’s always hovering round to light our cigarettes.”
Peddle, who had never known him to jest, or his father before him, went out in a muddled frame of mind, leaving Doggie to struggle into his dress trousers as best he might.
CHAPTER XX
When Doggie, in dinner suit, went downstairs, he found Peggy alone in the drawing-room. She gave him the kiss of one accustomed to kiss him from childhood, and sat down again on the fender-stool.
“Now you look more like a Christian gentleman,” she laughed. “Confess. It’s much more comfortable than your wretched private’s uniform.”
“I’m not quite so sure,” he said, somewhat ruefully, indicating his dinner jacket tightly constricted beneath the arms. “Already I’ve had to slit my waistcoat down the back. Poor old Peddle will have an apoplectic fit when he sees it. I’ve grown a bit since these elegant rags were made for me.”
“Il faut souffrir pour être beau,” said Peggy.
“If my being beau pleases you, Peggy, I’ll suffer gladly. I’ve been in tighter places.” He threw himself down in the corner of the sofa and joggled up and down like a child. “After all,” he said, “it’s jolly to sit on something squashy again, and to see a pretty girl in a pretty frock.”
“I’m glad you like this frock.”