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 passing his hand over it in a familiar gesture. Then Peggy cried: