"You goin to enlist!" he roared. "Never!" and marched on, his laughter rollicking down the corridor like a huge wind.
Alf entered the Colonel's office delicately: he had reasons of his own to fear everything that wore khaki.
The Colonel sat at his desk like a death's head, a trail of faded medal-ribands running across his khaki chest.
He was thin, spectral, almost cadaverous. But his voice was gentle, as always; his manner as always, most courteous. Nothing could be more remote from the truculence of the Army manner of tradition.
He was the spider talking to the fly.
"I'm afraid this is a very serious matter, Mr. Caspar," he began; and it was a favourite opening of his. "It seems you've been taking away the character of the wife of a member of His Majesty's forces now in France..."
The interview lasted some time, and it was the Colonel who did the talking.
"And now I won't detain you further, Mr. Caspar," he said at the end. "My clerk in the next room will take all your particulars for our index card register, so that we needn't bother you again when conscription comes."
"Conscription!" cried Alf, changing colour.
"Yes," replied the Colonel. "There's been no public announcement yet. But there's no reason you shouldn't know it's coming. It's got to."