“Who knows what he’s going to do? What are you going to do? Fly back to your little Robinson Crusoe Durdlebury of a Pacific Island? I don’t think so.”
Oliver stuck his pipe on the mantelpiece and his hands on his hips and made a stride towards Doggie.
“Damn you, Doggie! Damn you to little bits! How the Hades did you guess what I’ve scarcely told myself, much less another human being?”
“You yourself said it was a good old war and it has taught us a lot of things.”
“It has,” said Oliver. “But I never expected to hear Huaheine called Durdlebury by you, Doggie. Oh, Lord! I must have another drink. Where’s your glass? Say when?”
They parted for the night the best of friends.
Doggie, in spite of the silk pyjamas and the soft bed and the blazing fire in his room—he stripped back the light-excluding curtains forgetful of Defence of the Realm Acts, and opened all the windows wide, to the horror of Peddle in the morning—slept like an unperturbed dormouse. When Peddle woke him, he lay drowsily while the old butler filled his bath and fiddled about with drawers. At last aroused, he cried out:
“What the dickens are you doing?”
Peddle turned with an injured air. “I am matching your ties and socks for your bottle-green suit, sir.”
Doggie leaped out of bed. “You dear old idiot, I can’t go about the streets in bottle-green suits. I’ve got to wear my uniform.” He looked around the room. “Where the devil is it?”