"I hope it's a boy," he said, cutting his cigar with a good deal of deliberation. "They have the best time—or did in the old days. I wonder what your new After-the-War world is going to be like. You're a lucky man, George; you'll have known life before and after the Flood; you'll be able to tell the kid what sort of animal his father was." He handed me a match and then lit his own cigar. "Jove, we've known each other a devil of a long time, George."
"And an uncommon good time it was. We haven't seen the end of it yet."
He seemed to think the point hardly worth contesting and paced restlessly to and fro, until he came to a standstill by the window.
"Come here, George," he said, after a moment's contemplation of the scene without.
I crossed the room and looked into the darkened street. A shaded lamp threw its foggy circle of light on to the pavement and house-front of the opposite side. A party of men and girls were walking down the road with arms linked: as they came under the light the left-flank man shouted, "Left wheel!" and the line swung round on to the pavement and stood marking time before a row of recruiting posters pasted against the wall. Two of the men were in uniform, three in mufti; all were hilarious, and, as the line wheeled back and resumed the march down the street, the sound of an untuneful voice, encouraged by shrill, unrestrained laughter, floated up to the window.
"It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's—right there."
Loring let fall the blind and returned to his chair.
"England at war!" he remarked.
"Try to understand the people you're dealing with," I said. "A million men have enlisted to that tune."