At least, I think--
Capt. M. Never mind. Don't tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and
Landed-Gentry tack.
Capt. G. She'd see through it. She's five times cleverer than I am.
Capt. M. (Aside.) Then she'll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse
of him for the rest of her days.
Capt. G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?
Capt. M. 'Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question?
Think a minute. What answer used you to give?
Capt. G. So bad as that? I'm not entitled to expect anything more, but it's a
bit hard when one's best friend turns round and--
Capt. M. So I have found. But you will have consolations--Bailiffs and Drains
and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you're lucky, the
Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment--all uniform and no riding, I
believe. How old are you?
Capt. G. Thirty-three. I know it's--
Capt. M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J. P. landlord. At fifty you'll own a
bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the
dovecotes of--what's the particular dunghill you're going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby
will be fat.
Capt. G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke.
Capt. M. D'you think so? Isn't cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes a
man fifty years to arrive at it.
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