BALD (vaguely): Yes, they're a fine lot! (Suddenly)
So's Charlie Beresford!
CAP (with more enthusiasm than he had yet shown): I say ditto to that, Mr. Binder! (Thinking for a few moments of the characteristics of Lord Charles Beresford.) It's pluck—that's what it is—regular British pluck (Grimly) That's the kind of man—no favouritism.
BALD: Ar! it's a case of "Well done, Condor!"
CAP: Ar! you're right there, Mr. Binder.
BALD (suddenly pulling a large flask out of his pocket and speaking very rapidly): Well, here's yours, Mr. Mowle. (He drinks out of it a quantity of neat whisky, and having drunk it rubs the top of his flask with his sleeve and hands it over politely to) CAP.
Cap (having drunk a lot of neat whisky also, rubbed his sleeve over it, screwed on the little top and giving that long gasp which the occasion demands): Yes, you're right there—"Well done. Condor."
At this point the train began to go slowly, and just as it stopped at the station I heard Cap begin again, asking Bald on what occasion and for what services Lord Charles Beresford had been given his title.
Full of the marvels of this conversation I got out, went into the waiting-room and wrote it all down. I think I have it accurately word for word.
But there happened to me what always happens after all literary effort; the enthusiasm vanished, the common day was before me. I went out to do my work in the place and to meet quite ordinary people and to forget, perhaps, (so strong is Time) the fantastic beings in the train. In a word, to quote Mr. Binyon's admirable lines:
"The world whose wrong
Mocks holy beauty and our desire returned."