“You’ll find it the flavour of the whole British Army,” said McPhail.
A few days later the Dean received a letter bearing the pencilled address of a camp on the south coast, and written by 35792 Pvte. James M. Trevor, A Company, 2-10th Wessex Rangers. It ran:
“I hope you won’t think me heartless for having left you so long without news of me; but until lately I had the same reasons for remaining in seclusion as when I last wrote. Even now I’m not asking for sympathy or reconsideration of my failure or desire in any way to take advantage of the generosity of you all.
“I have enlisted in the 10th Wessex. Phineas McPhail, whom I met in London and whose character for good or evil I can better gauge now than formerly, is a private in the same battalion. I don’t pretend to enjoy the life any more than I could enjoy living in a kraal of savages in Central Africa. But that is a matter of no account. I don’t propose to return to Durdlebury till the end of the war. I left it as an officer and I’m not coming back as a private soldier. I enclose a cheque for £500. Perhaps Aunt Sophia will be so kind as to use the money—it ought to last some time—for the general upkeep, wages, etc., of Denby Hall. I feel sure she will not refuse me this favour. Give Peggy my love and tell her I hope she will accept the two-seater as a parting gift. It will make me happier to know that she is driving it.
“I am keeping on as a pied à terre in London the Bloomsbury rooms in which I have been living, and I’ve written to Peddle to see about making them more comfortable. Please ask anybody who might care to write to address me as ‘James M.’ and not as ‘Marmaduke.’”
The Dean read the letter—the family were at breakfast; then he took off his tortoise-shell spectacles and wiped them.
“It’s from Marmaduke at last,” said he. “He has carried out my prophecy and enlisted.”
Peggy caught at her breath and shot out her hand for the letter, which she read eagerly and then passed over to her mother. Mrs. Conover began to cry.
“Oh, the poor boy! It will be worse than ever for him.”
“It will,” said Peggy. “But I think it splendid of him to try. How did he bring himself to do it?”
“Breed tells,” said the Dean. “That’s what every one seems to have forgotten. He’s a thoroughbred Doggie. There’s the old French proverb: Bon chien chasse de race.”