“But who do the applications go in to?”
“To the colonel, or whoever he appoints to handle it. You a Catholic?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. That's the hell of it. The regimental sergeant-major is.”
“Well?”
“I guess you haven't noticed the way things run up at divisional headquarters. It's a regular cathedral. Isn't a mason in it.... But I must beat it.... Better pretend you don't know me if you meet me on the street; see?”
“All right.”
Walters hurried out of the door. Andrews sat alone looking at the flutter of little flames about the pile of sticks on the hearth, while he sipped chocolate from the warm bowl held between the palms of both hands.
He remembered a speech out of some very bad romantic play he had heard when he was very small.
“About your head I fling... the curse of Rome.”