“But for their simplicity of nature and amiability of character the British Empire—that glorious conglomeration of races upon which the sun utterly declines to set—would have fallen into decay and debility as a second-class Power. Before the war the German Empire was gaining our trade, capturing all the markets of the world, waiting at table in all the best hotels, and providing all the music in the cafés-chantants of the universe.... With that immense unselfishness so characteristic of their race, the Germans threw away these advantages and sacrificed themselves for the benefit of the British. By declaring war they enabled all the ancient virtues of our race to be revived. Generals sprang up in every direction—especially in Whitehall, Boulogne and Rouen. Staff officers multiplied exceedingly. British indigestion—the curse of our race—became subject to a Sam Brown belt. Business men, mostly bankrupt, were enriched enormously. Clergymen thundered joyfully from their pulpits and went back to the Old Testament for that fine old law, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ Elderly virgins married the youngest subalterns. The youngest flapper caught the eldest and wiliest of bachelors. Our people were revivified, gentlemen—revivified-”
“Go easy,” growled Brand. “This is not a night for irony.”
“Even I,” said Charles Fortune, with a sob of pride in his voice, “even I, a simple piano-tuner, a man of music, a child of peace and melody—Shut up, Brand!—became every inch a soldier!”
He drew himself up in a heroic pose and, raising his glass, cried out: “Here’s to our late enemy—poor old Fritz!”
A number of glasses were raised amidst a roar of laughter.
“Here’s to Fritz—and may the Kaiser roast at Christmas!”
“And they say we haven’t a sense of humour,” said Charles Fortune modestly, and opened a new bottle of champagne.
Brand had a sense of humour, and had laughed dining Fortune’s oration, knowing that beneath its mockery there was no malice. But I noticed that he had no spontaneous gaiety on this night of Armistice and sat rather silent, with a far-away look in his eyes and that hag-ridden melancholy of his.
Young Clatworthy was between me and Brand, drinking too heavily, I thought. Brand thought so too, and gave him a word of caution.
“That champagne is pretty bad. I’d ‘ware headaches, if I were you, young’un.”