He raised his hands above his head with a sudden passionate gesture.
“Christ God!” he said. “The tragedy of those people! The monstrous cruelty of it all!”
Fortune took his hand and patted it, in a funny affectionate way.
“You are too sensitive, Wicky. ‘A sensitive plant in a garden grew’—a war-garden, with its walls blown down, and dead bodies among the little daisies-o. I try to cultivate a sense of humour, and a little irony. It’s a funny old war, Wicky, believe me, if you look at it in the right light.”
Wickham groaned.
“I see no humour in it, nor light anywhere.”
Fortune chanted again the beginning of his Anthem:
“Blear-eyed Bill, the Butcher of the Boche.”
As usual, there was a crowd about us, smiling, waving handkerchiefs and small flags, pressing forward to shake hands and to say, “Vivent les Anglais!”
It was out of that crowd that a girl came and stood in front of us, with a wave of her hand.