“What sort of work did you do before you came in the army, if I may ask?”
“I was an actor.”
“Is that so?” At one time the Major had been interested in the theater. He was still fascinated by the business. “Were you in the pictures?”
“No, on the stage. Up around New England.”
“Indeed? This,” the Major pointed at the water, “this seems quite different from that sort of work.”
“In a way I suppose so. That’s what the army does. It’s just one of those things, I guess.”
“Just one of those things,” echoed the Major. He thought of himself on a stage. In his mind he could see himself playing Wellington. The uniforms would be flattering. He would look martial in them. Major Barkison was a romantic, a frustrated romantic perhaps, but still a romantic. Before the war, when the army could wear civilian clothes, Major Barkison had worn very bright ties. “Must be interesting work.”
“Yes, I guess I’ll do it again if I can.”
“You must certainly. One should always do the thing one does best.” The Major spoke with the firmness of the master of the platitude.
“That’s right, sir.”