Now, he found that his talk with the Irishman had been an antidote to the poison. He felt ashamed. Did he dare set himself up to be finer clay than that common soldier? Spiritually, was he even of clay as fine? In a Great Judgment of Souls which of the twain would be among the Elect? The ultra-refined Mr. Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall, or the ignorant poet-warrior of Ballinasloe? “Not Doggie Trevor,” he said between his teeth. And he went home in a chastened spirit.
Phineas McPhail appeared punctually at half-past one, and feasted succulently on fried sole and sweetbread.
“Laddie,” said he, “the man that can provide such viands is a Thing of Beauty which, as the poet says, is a Joy for Ever. The light in his window is a beacon to the hungry Tommy dragging himself through the viscous wilderness of regulation stew.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be a beacon for very long,” said Doggie.
“Eh?” queried Phineas sharply. “You’d surely not be thinking of refusing an old friend a stray meal?”
Doggie coloured at the coarseness of the misunderstanding.
“How could I be such a brute? There won’t be a light in the window because I shan’t be there. I’m going to enlist.”
Phineas put his elbows on the table and regarded him earnestly.
“I would not take too seriously words spoken in the heat of midnight revelry, even though the revel was conducted on the genteelest principles. Have you thought of the matter in the cool and sober hours of the morning?”
“Yes.”