ttle 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."

Instinctively he stretched out his hand for a cigarette. She bent
forward, gripped a matchbox, and lit the cigarette for him.

Doggie thanked her politely; but in a dim way he felt conscious of
something lackin