Doggie shook his head, at the same time passing his hand over it in a familiar gesture.
Then Peggy cried:
“I knew there was something wrong with you. Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve had your hair cut—cut quite differently.”
It was McPhail, careful godfather, who had taken him as a recruit to the regimental barber and prescribed a transformation from the sleek long hair brushed back over the head to a conventional military crop with a rudiment of a side parting. On the crown a few bristles stood up as if uncertain which way to go.
“It’s advisable,” Doggie replied, “for a Tommy’s hair to be cut as short as possible. The Germans are sheared like convicts.”
Peggy regarded him open-eyed and puzzle-browed. He enlightened her no further, but pursued the main proposition.
“I wouldn’t take a commission,” said he, “if the War Office went mad and sank on its knees and beat its head in the dust before me.”
“In Heaven’s name, why not?”
“I’ve learned my place in the world,” said Doggie.
Peggy shook him by the shoulder and turned on him her young eager face.