“Samjoe?” repeated Mr. Lavender.
“Your chauffeur—I call him that. He's very like Sam Weller and Sancho Panza, don't you think, Don Pickwixote?
“Ah!” said Mr. Lavender, bewildered; “Joe, you mean. A good fellow. He has in him the sort of heroism which I admire more than any other.”
“Which is that?” asked the young lady.
“That imperturbable humour in the face of adverse circumstances for which our soldiers are renowned.”
“You are a great believer in heroics, Don Pickwixote,” said the young lady.
“What would life be without them?” returned Mr. Lavender. “The war could not go on for a minute.”
“You're right there,” said the young lady bitterly.
“You surely,” said Mr. Lavender, aghast, “cannot wish it to stop until we have destroyed our common enemies?”
“Well,” said the young lady, “I'm not a Pacifist; but when you see as many people without arms and legs as I do, heroics get a bit off, don't you know.” And she increased her pace until Mr. Lavender, who was not within four inches of her stature, was almost compelled to trot. “If I were a Tommy,” she added, “I should want to shoot every man who uttered a phrase. Really, at this time of day, they are the limit.”