When we three were comfortably settled under the big sisham in
front of the bungalow, and the first rush of questions and answers
about Privates Ortheris and Learoyd and old times and places had
died away, Mulvaney said, reflectively - "Glory be, there's no
p'rade to-morrow, an' no bun-headed Corp'ril-bhoy to give you his
lip. An' yit I don't know. 'Tis harrd to be something ye niver
were an' niver meant to be, an' all the ould days shut up along
wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty, an' 'tis the will av God
that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an' all."

He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously.

"Let your beard grow, Mulvaney," said I, "and then you won't be
troubled with those notions. You'll be a real civilian."

Dinah Shadd had told me in the drawing-room of her desire to coax
Mulvaney into letting his beard grow. "'Twas so civilian-like,"
said poor Dinah, who hated her husband's hankering for his old
life.

"Dinah Shadd, you're a dishgrace to an honust, clane-scraped man!
"said Mulvaney, without replying to me. "Grow a beard on your own
chin, darlint, and lave my razors alone. They're all that stand
betune me and dis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn't shave, I wud be
torminted wid an outrajis thurrst; for there's nothin' so dhryin'
to the throat as a big billy-goat beard waggin' undher the chin.
Ye wudn't have me dhrink always, Dinah Shadd'? By the same token,
you're kapin' me crool dhry now. Let me look at that whiskey."