"I'll tell you what it is, my boy," he accused, with lifted forefinger.
"You like to pose--that's what is the matter with you! You like to act
stolid, matter-of-fact, correct; you want to sit in your ambulance and
smoke cigarettes indifferently and raise your eyebrows superciliously
when shrapnel bursts round. And it's all very well now; it looks
picturesque; it looks good form, very. But how old are you, eh, Dev?
Twenty-eight is it? Twenty-nine?"
"You should know--none better--that I am thirty," I responded. "Haven't
you remembered each anniversary since I was five, beginning with a
hobby-horse and working up through knives and rifles and ponies to the
latest thing in cars?"
Dunny lowered his accusing finger and tapped it on the cloth.
"Thirty," he repeated fatefully. "All right, Dev. Strong and fit as an
ox, and a crack polo-player and a fair shot and boxer and not bad with
boats and cars and horses and pretty well off, too. So when you look
bored, it's picturesque; but wait! Wait ten years, till you take on
flesh, and the doctor puts you on diet, and you stop hunting chances to
kill yourself, but play golf like me.
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