"We're all very proud of you, Marmaduke," said the Dean.

"I think you're just splendid," said Peggy.

They were sitting in Doggie's rooms in Woburn Place, Doggie having been given his three days' leave before going to France. Once again Durdlebury had come to Doggie and not Doggie to Durdlebury. Aunt Sophia, however, somewhat ailing, had stayed at home.

Doggie stood awkwardly before them, conscious of swollen hands and broken nails, shapeless ammunition boots and ill-fitting slacks; morbidly conscious, too, of his original failure.

"You're about ten inches more round the chest than you were," said the Dean admiringly.

"And the picture of health," cried Peggy.

"For anyone who has a sound const.i.tution," answered Doggie, "it is quite a healthy life."

"Now that you've got into the way, I'm sure you must really love it,"

said Peggy with an encouraging smile.

"It isn't so bad," he replied.

"What none of us can quite understand, my dear fellow," said the Dean, "is your shying at Durdlebury. As we have written you, everybody's singing your praises. Not a soul but would have given you a hearty welcome."

"Besides," Peggy chimed in, "you needn't have made an exhibition of yourself in the town if you didn't want to. The poor Peddles are woefully disappointed."

"There's a war going on. They must bear up--like lots of other people," replied Doggie.

"He's becoming quite cynical," Peggy laughed. "But, apart from the Peddles, there's your own beautiful house waiting for you. It seems so funny not to go to it, instead of moping in these fusty lodgings."

"Perhaps," said Doggie quietly, "if I went there I should never want to come back."

"There's something to be said from that point of view," the Dean admitted. "A solution of continuity is never quite without its dangers. Even Oliver confessed as much."

"Oliver?"

"Yes, didn't Peggy tell you?"

"I didn't think Marmaduke would be interested," said Peggy quickly.

"He and Oliver have never been what you might call bosom friends."

"I shouldn't have minded about hearing of him," said Doggie. "Why should I? What's he doing?"

The Dean gave information. Oliver, now a captain, had come home on leave a month ago, and had spent some of it at the Deanery. He had seen a good deal of fighting, and had one or two narrow escapes.

"Was he keen to get back?" asked Doggie.

The Dean smiled. "I instanced his case in my remark as to the dangers of the solution of continuity."

"Oh, rubbish, daddy," cried his daughter, with a flush, "Oliver is as keen as mustard." The Dean made a little gesture of submission. She continued. "He doesn't like the beastliness out there for its own sake, any more than Marmaduke will. But he simply loves his job. He has improved tremendously. Once he thought he was the only man in the country who had seen Life stark naked, and he put on frills accordingly Now that he's just one of a million who have been up against Life stripped to its skeleton, he's a bit subdued."

"I'm glad of that," said Doggie.

The Dean, urbanely indulgent, joined his fingertips together and smiled. "Peggy is right," said he, "although I don't wholly approve of her modern lack of reticence in metaphor. Oliver is coming out true gold from the fire. He's a capital fellow. And he spoke of you, my dear Marmaduke, in the kindest way in the world. He has a tremendous admiration for your pluck."

"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."

Doggie shook his head, at the same time pa.s.sing 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 G.o.dfather, 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.

"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 a.s.sured 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?"