"It's rather pathetic," said Oliver. "In his heart he would like to play the devil with the bishops and kick every able-bodied parson into the trenches--and there are thousands of them that don't need any kicking and, on the contrary, have been kicked back; but he has become half-petrified in the atmosphere of this place. It's lovely to come to as a sort of funk-hole of peace--but my holy aunt!--What the blazes are you laughing at?" "I'm only thinking of a beast of a boy here who used to say that," replied Doggie. "Oh!" said Oliver, and he grinned. "Anyway, I was only going to remark that if I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life here, I'd paint the town vermilion for a week and then cut my throat." "I quite agree with you," said Doggie. "What are you going to do when the war's over?" "Who knows what he's going to do? What are you going to do? Fly back to your little Robinson Crusoe Durdlebury of a Pacific Island? I don't think so." Oliver stuck his pipe on the mantelpiece and his hands on his hips and made a stride towards Doggie. "Damn you, Doggie! Damn you to little bits! How the Hades did you guess what I've scarcely told myself, much less another human being?" "You yourself said it was a good old war and it has taught us a lot of things." "It has," said Oliver. "But I never expected to hear Huaheine called Durdlebury by you, Doggie. Oh, Lord! I must have another drink. Where's your glass? Say when?" They parted for the night the best of friends. Doggie, in spite of the silk pyjamas and the soft bed and the blazing fire in his room--he stripped back the light-excluding curtains forgetful of Defence of the Realm Acts, and opened all the windows wide, to the horror of Peddle in the morning--slept like an unperturbed dormouse. When Peddle woke him, he lay drowsily while the old butler filled his bath and fiddled about with drawers. At last aroused, he cried out: "What the dickens are you doing?" Peddle turned with an injured air. "I am matching your ties and socks for your bottle-green suit, sir." Doggie leaped out of bed. "You dear old idiot, I can't go about the streets in bottle-green suits. I've got to wear my uniform." He looked around the room. "Where the devil is it?" Peddle's injured air deepened almost into resentment. "Where the devil----!" Never had Mr. Marmaduke, or his father, the Canon, used such language. He drew himself up. "I have given orders, sir, for the uniform suit you wore yesterday to be sent to the cleaners." "Oh, hell!" said Doggie. And Peddle, unaccustomed to the vernacular of the British Army, paled with horror. "Oh, hell!" said Doggie. "Look here, Peddle, just you get on a bicycle, or a motor-car, or an express train at once and retrieve that uniform. Don't you understand? I'm a private soldier. I've got to wear uniform all the time, and I'll have to stay in this beastly bed until you get it for me."