Howbeit, Lieutenant Calvert dressed himself with uncertain hands
but mechanical regularity and neatness, and, under the automatic
training of discipline and duty, managed to button his tunic
tightly over his feelings, to pull himself together with his sword-
belt, compressing a still cadet-like waist, and to present that
indescribable combination of precision and jauntiness which his
brother officers too often allowed to lapse into frontier
carelessness. His closely clipped light hair, yet dripping from a
plunge in the cold water, had been brushed and parted with military
exactitude, and when surmounted by his cap, with the peak in an
artful suggestion of extra smartness tipped forward over his eyes,
only his pale face--a shade lighter than his little blonde
moustache--showed his last night's excesses. He was mechanically
reaching for his sword and staring confusedly at the papers on his
table when his servant interrupted:
"Major Bromley arranged that Lieutenant Kirby takes your sash this
morning, as you're not well, sir; and you're to report for special
to the colonel," he added, pointing discreetly to the envelope.
Touched by this consideration of his superior, Major Bromley, who
had been one of the veterans of last night's engagement, Calvert
mastered the contents of the envelope without the customary
anathema of specials, said, "Thank you, Parks," and passed out on
the veranda.
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