He smiled, pleased with his little epigram.
“Which means,” said Oliver, “that you’re afraid to roughen your hands and spoil your complexion.”
“If you like to put it that way—symbolically.”
“Symbolically be hanged!” cried Oliver, losing his temper. “You’re an effeminate little rotter, and I’m through with you. Go on and wag your tail and sit up and beg for biscuits——”
“Stop!” shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger which shook him from head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown flapping round his legs, and threw it wide open. “This is my house. I’m sorry to have to ask you to get out of it.”
Oliver looked intently for a few seconds into the flaming little dark eyes. Then he said gravely:
“I’m a beast to have said that. I take it all back. Good-bye!”
“Good day to you,” said Doggie; and when the door was shut he went and threw himself, shaken, on the couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot and swab decks! It was Bedlam madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it would be excruciating discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at such martyrdom. It was intolerable.
Doggie stayed away from the Deanery all that day. On the morrow he heard, to his relief, that Oliver had returned to London with the unedifying Chipmunk. He took Peggy for a drive in the Rolls-Royce, and told her of Oliver’s high-handed methods. She sympathized. She said, however:
“Oliver’s a rough diamond.”