“Like hell,” suggested Oliver, greatly daring.
“Or words to that effect,” smiled the old Dean. He looked at his watch. “Dear, dear! past eleven. I wish I could sit up talking to you boys. But I start my day’s work at eight o’clock. If you want anything, you’ve only got to ring. Good night. It is one of the proudest days of my life to have you both here together.”
His courtly charm seemed to linger in the room after he had left.
“He’s a dear old chap,” said Oliver.
“One of the best,” said Doggie.
“It’s rather pathetic,” said Oliver. “In his heart he would like to play the devil with the bishops and kick every able-bodied parson into the trenches—and there are thousands of them that don’t need any kicking and, on the contrary, have been kicked back; but he has become half-petrified in the atmosphere of this place. It’s lovely to come to as a sort of funk-hole of peace—but my holy aunt!—What the blazes are you laughing at?”
“I’m only thinking of a beast of a boy here who used to say that,” replied Doggie.
“Oh!” said Oliver, and he grinned. “Anyway, I was only going to remark that if I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life here, I’d paint the town vermilion for a week and then cut my throat.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Doggie.
“What are you going to do when the war’s over?”