"Well, how are you feeling?" "First-rate," said Doggie. "It's nothing to fuss over. I hope to be out again in a month or two." "Out where?" "In France--with the regiment." Peggy drew a little breath of astonishment and sat up on her chair. His surprising statement seemed to have broken up the atmosphere of restraint. "Do you mean to say you _want_ to go back to the trenches?" Conscientious Doggie knitted his brows. A fervent "Yes" would proclaim him a modern Paladin, eager to slay Huns. Now, as a patriotic Englishman he loved Huns to be slain, but as the survivor of James Marmaduke Trevor, dilettante expert on the theorbo and the viol da gamba and owner of the peacock and ivory room in Denby Hall, to say nothing of the collector of little china dogs, he could not honestly declare that he enjoyed the various processes of slaying them. "I can't explain," he replied, after a while. "When I was out, I thought I hated every minute of it. Now I look back, I find I've had quite a good time. I've not once really been sick or sorry. For instance, I've often thought myself beastly miserable with wet and mud and east wind--but I've never had even a cold in the head. I never knew how good it was to feel fit. And there are other things. When I left Durdlebury, I hadn't a man friend in the world. Now I have a lot of wonderful pals who would go through hell for one another--and for me." "Tommies?" "Of course--Tommies." "You mean gentlemen in the ranks?" "Not a bit of it. Or yes. All are gentlemen in the ranks. All sorts and conditions of men. The man whom I honour and love more than anyone else, comes from a fish-shop in Hackney. That's the fascinating part of it. Do understand me, Peggy," he continued, after a short silence, during which she regarded him almost uncomprehendingly. "I don't say I'm yearning to sleep in a filthy dug out or to wallow in the ground under shell-fire, or anything of that sort. That's beastly. There's only one other word for it, which begins with the same letter, and the superior kind of private doesn't use it in ladies' society.... But while I'm lying here I wonder what all the other fellows are doing--they're such good chaps--real, true, clean men--out there you seem to get to essentials--all the rest is leather and prunella--and I want to be back among them again. Why should I be in clover while they're in choking dust--a lot of it composed of desiccated Boches?" "How horrid!" cried Peggy, with a little shiver. "Of course it's horrid. But they've got to stick it, haven't they? And then there's another thing. Out there one hasn't any worries." Peggy pricked up her ears. "Worries? What kind of worries?" Doggie became conscious of indiscretion. He temporized. "Oh, all kinds. Every man with a sort of trained intellect must have them. You remember John Stuart Mill's problem: 'Which would you sooner be--a contented hog, or a discontented philosopher?' At the Front you have all the joys of the contented hog."