“Your place in the world is that of a cultivated gentleman of old family, Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall.”
“That was the funny old world,” said he, “that stood on its legs—legs wide apart with its hands beneath the tails of its dress-coat, in front of the drawing-room fire. The present world’s standing on its head. Everything’s upside-down. It has no sort of use for Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall. No more use than for Goliath. By the way, how is the poor little beast getting on?”
Peggy laughed. “Oh, Goliath is perfectly assured of his position. He has got it rammed into his mind that he drives the two-seater.” She returned to the attack. “Do you intend always to remain a private?”
“I do,” said he. “Not even a corporal. You see, I’ve learned to be a private of sorts, and that satisfies my ambition.”
“Well, I give it up,” said Peggy. “Though why you wouldn’t let dad get you a nice cushy job is a thing I can’t understand. For the life of me I can’t.”
“I’ve made my bed, and I must lie on it,” he said quietly.
“I don’t believe you’ve got such a thing as a bed.”
Doggie smiled. “Oh yes, a bed of a sort.” Then noting her puzzled face, he said consolingly: “It’ll all come right when the war’s over.”
“But when will that be? And who knows, my dear man, what may happen to you?”
“If I’m knocked out, I’m knocked out, and there’s an end of it,” replied Doggie philosophically.