"
"A ripping soldier" they called him and some of them entertained serious
doubts as to whether they had done wisely in choosing the less glorious
paths of peace. And Arthur Agar settled down into the old profitless
life, with this difference--that he could not dine out, that he used
blackedged notepaper, and that his delicate heliotrope neckties were
folded away in a drawer until such time as his grief should be assuaged
into that state of resignation technically called half-mourning.
One afternoon well towards the end of the term Arthur Agar's "gyp" crept
in with that valet-like confidential air which seems to be bred of too
intimate a knowledge of the extent of one's wardrobe.
"There is a gentleman, sir," he said, "as wants to see you. But in no
wise will he give his name, which, he says, you don't know it."
"Is he selling engravings?" asked Arthur.
The "gyp" looked mildly offended. As if he didn't know that sort!
"No, sir. Military man, I should take it."
Arthur Agar had met the Scotch Balaclava veteran in his time too.
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