“That’s very good of him, I’m sure,” said Doggie.
Presently the Dean—good, tactful man—discovered that he must go out and have a prescription made up at a chemist’s. That arch-Hun enemy, the gout, against which he must never be unprepared. He would be back in time for dinner. The engaged couple were left alone.
“Well?” said Peggy.
“Well, dear?” said Doggie.
Her lips invited. He responded. She drew him to the saddle-bag sofa, and they sat down side by side.
“I quite understand, dear old thing,” she said. “I know the resignation and the rest of it hurt you awfully. It hurt me. But it’s no use grousing over spilt milk. You’ve already mopped it all up. It’s no disgrace to be a private. It’s an honour. There are thousands of gentlemen in the ranks. Besides—you’ll work your way up and they’ll offer you another commission in no time.”
“You’re very good and sweet, dear,” said Doggie, “to have such faith in me. But I’ve had a year——”
“A year!” cried Peggy. “Good lord! so it is.” She counted on her fingers. “Not quite. But eleven months. It’s eleven months since I’ve seen you. Do you realize that? The war has put a stop to time. It is just one endless day.”
“One awful, endless day,” Doggie acquiesced with a smile. “But I was saying—I’ve had a year, or an endless day of eleven months, in which to learn myself. And what I don’t know about myself isn’t knowledge.”
Peggy interrupted with a laugh. “You must be a wonder. Dad’s always preaching about self-knowledge. Tell me all about it.”