"And there, my boy," pursued Doe, "in picture-form before you, this humid afternoon, is the answer to your question."
"But it was your question," I suggested.
"Don't be a fool, Rupert. Ask me what I mean."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"I mean this: that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning to see the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, and presenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions."
I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon he sat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made this irrelevant remark:
"Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near my home?"
"Yes."
"Well, do you think it's anything like a lily? For mercy's sake say it is."
"Why?" I demanded.