Here was a delicate situation. Two very tender-skinned vanities opposed to each other. The smart of seeing one’s affianced bride in the arms of another man hurts grievously sore. It’s a primitive sex affair, independent of love in its modern sense. If the savage’s abandoned squaw runs off with another fellow, he pursues him with clubs and tomahawks until he has avenged the insult. Having known ME, to decline to Spotted Crocodile! So the finest flower of civilization cannot surrender the lady who once was his to the more favoured male without a primitive pang. On the other hand, Doggie knew very well that he did not love Peggy, that he had never loved Peggy. But how in common decency could a man tell a girl, who had wasted a couple of years of her life over him, that he had never loved her? Instead of replying to her questions, he walked about the room in a worried way.
“I take it,” said Peggy incisively, after a while, “that you don’t care for me any longer.”
He turned and halted at the challenge. He snapped his fingers. What was the good of all this beating of the bush?
“Look here, Peggy, let’s face it out. If you’ll confess that you and Oliver are in love with each other, I’ll confess to a girl in France.”
“Oh?” said Peggy, with a swift change to coolness. “There’s a girl in France, is there? How long has this been going on?”
“The last four days in billets before I got wounded,” said Doggie.
“What is she like?”
Then Doggie suddenly laughed out loud and took her by the shoulders in a grasp rougher than she had ever dreamed to lie in the strength or nature of Marmaduke Trevor, and kissed her the heartiest, honestest kiss she had ever had from man, and rushed out of the room.
Presently he returned, dragging with him the disconsolate Major.
“Here,” said he, “fix it up between you. I’ve told Peggy about a girl in France and she wants to know what she’s like.”