“Just the same sort of thing in my case,” replied Doggie. “I’m glad things are right with the young lady.”
“First class. She’s straight, she is, and no mistake abaht it. She’s a——”
He paused for a word to express the inexpressive she.
“—A paragon—a peach?”—Doggie corrected himself. Then, as the sudden frown of perplexed suspicion was swiftly replaced by a grin of content, he was struck by a bright idea.
“What’s her name?”
“Aggie. What’s yours?”
“Gladys,” replied Doggie with miraculous readiness of invention.
“I’ve got her photograph,” Shendish confided in a whisper, and laid his hand on his tunic pocket. Then he looked round at the half-filled canteen to see that he was unobserved. “You won’t give me away if I show it yer, will yer?”
Doggie swore secrecy. The photograph of Aggie, an angular, square-browed damsel, who looked as though she could guide the most recalcitrant of fishmongers into the paths of duty, was produced and thrust into Doggie’s hand. He inspected it with polite appreciation, while his red-headed friend regarded him with fatuous anxiety.
“Charming! charming!” said Doggie in his pleasantest way. “What’s her colouring?”