“What has honour got to do with it?” asked Oliver.
“I’ll try to explain. It’s somehow this way. When I came to my senses after being chucked for incompetence—that was the worst hell I ever went through in my life—and I enlisted, I swore that I would stick it as a Tommy without anybody’s sympathy, least of all that of the folks here. And then I swore I’d make good to myself as a Tommy. I was just beginning to feel happier when that infernal Boche sniper knocked me out for a time. So, Peggy or no Peggy, I’m going through with it. I suppose I’m telling you all this because I should like you to know.”
He passed his hand, in the familiar gesture, from back to front of his short-cropped hair. Oliver smiled at the reminiscence of the old disturbed Doggie; but he said very gravely:
“I’m glad you’ve told me, old man. I appreciate it very much. I’ve been through the ranks myself and know what it is—the bad and the good. Many a man has found his soul that way——”
“Good God!” cried Doggie, starting to his feet. “Do you say that too?”
“Who else said it?”
The quick question caused the blood to rush to Doggie’s face. Oliver’s keen, half-mocking gaze held him. He cursed himself for an impulsive idiot. The true answer to the question would be a confession of Jeanne. The scene in the kitchen of Frélus swam before his eyes. He dropped into his chair again with a laugh.
“Oh, some one out there—in another heart-to-heart talk. As a matter of fact, I think I said it myself. It’s odd you should have used the same words. Anyhow, you’re the only other person who has hit on the truth as far as I’m concerned. Finding one’s soul is a bit high-falutin—but that’s about the size of it.”
“Peggy hasn’t hit on the truth, then?” Oliver asked, with curious earnestness, the shade of mockery gone.
“The war has scarcely touched her yet, you see,” said Doggie. He rose, shrinking from discussion. “Shall we go in?”