He was about to say so when he
noticed a gentleman in khaki scrutinizing him with lively eyes slightly
injected with blood.
"Don Pickwixote," said the young lady; "my father, Major Scarlet."
Mr. Lavender's hand was grasped by one which seemed to him made of iron.
"I am honoured, sir," he said painfully, "to meet the father of my
charming young neighbour."
The Major answered in a voice as clipped as his grey bottle-brush
moustache, "Delighted! Dinner's ready. Come along!"
Mr. Lavender saw that he had a mouth which seemed to have a bitt in
it; several hairs on a finely rounded head; and an air of efficient and
truculent bonhomie tanned and wrinkled by the weather.
The table at which they became seated seemed to one accustomed to
frugality to groan with flowers and china and glass; and Mr. Lavender
had hardly supped his rich and steaming soup before his fancy took fire;
nor did he notice that he was drinking from a green glass in which was a
yellow fluid.
"I get Army rations," said the Major, holding a morsel of fillet of beef
towards Blink. "Nice dog, Mr. Lavender."
"Yes," replied Mr. Lavender, ever delighted that his favourite should
receive attention, "she is an angel."
"Too light," said the Major, "and a bit too narrow in front; but a nice
dog.
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