“One must guard against that point of view,” St. Peter returned, “but I know what you mean. Office officialises the best of us.... What is it now?” He turned to a prim-lipped Seraph who had followed him with an expulsion-form for signature. St. Peter glanced it over. “Private R. M. Buckland,” he read, “on the charge of saying that there is no God. ’That all?”
“He says he is prepared to prove it, sir, and—according to the Rules——”
“If you will make yourself acquainted with the Rules, you’ll find they lay down that ‘the fool says in his heart, there is no God.’ That decides it; probably shell-shock. Have you tested his reflexes?”
“No, sir. He kept on saying that there——”
“Pass him in at once! Tell off some one to argue with him and give him the best of the argument till St. Luke’s free. Anything else?”
“A hospital-nurse’s record, sir. She has been nursing for two years.”
“A long while,” St. Peter spoke severely. “She may very well have grown careless.”
“It’s her civilian record, sir. I judged best to refer it to you.” The Seraph handed him a vivid scarlet docket.
“The next time,” said St. Peter folding it down and writing on one corner, “that you get one of these—er—tinted forms, mark it Q.M.A. and pass bearer at once. Don’t worry over trifles.” The Seraph flashed off and returned to the clamorous Gate.
“Which Department is Q.M.A.?” said Death. St. Peter chuckled.