“We’re going to enlist in King Edward’s Horse. They’re our kind. Overseas men. Lots of ’em what you dear good people would call bad eggs. There you make the mistake. Perhaps they mayn’t be fresh enough raw for a dainty palate—but for cooking, good hard cooking, by gosh! nothing can touch ’em.”
“You talk of enlisting, dear,” said Mrs. Conover. “Does that mean as a private soldier?”
“Yes—a trooper. Why not?”
“You’re a gentleman, dear. And gentlemen in the Army are officers.”
“Not now, my dear Sophia,” said the Dean. “Gentlemen are crowding into the ranks. They are setting a noble example.”
They argued it out in their gentle old-fashioned way. The Dean quoted examples of sons of family who had served as privates in the South African War.
“And that to this,” said he, “is but an eddy to a maelstrom.”
“Come and join us, James Marmaduke,” said Oliver across the table. “Chipmunk and me. Three ‘sworn brothers to France.’”
Doggie smiled easily. “I’m afraid I can’t undertake to swear a fraternal affection for Chipmunk. He and I would have neither habits nor ideals in common.”
Oliver turned to Peggy. “I wish,” said he, with rare restraint, “he wouldn’t talk like a book on deportment.”