“Well, you want to be a decent member of society.”
“Not in the least! Before the war I wanted to make money and have a good time; I enjoyed the war because I liked flying... and I liked killing. There was no ‘thin red line’ about me; I wasn’t risking my skin for the people here. It was good fun, though and I believe I killed more French than Germans. Now I want to have a good time again.”
“And what constitutes a good time?,” asked O’Rane.
“Oh, I don’t know. The usual things... Human nature’s constant.”
“And it’s amazing how soon human nature gets tired of wine, women and song. Short of sudden death, you’ve a long life before you still; you must aim at something permanent. And the only permanent things you’re going for at present are cirrhosis of the liver and general paralysis... Were you in love with this Maitland child?”
Gaymer turned in his chair so quickly that he upset his tumbler; as he picked it up, he wondered if O’Rane knew that blindness alone saved him from having the remains of the brandy thrown in his face... After a moment’s industrious mopping, Gaymer looked up and was bewildered to find his ill-temper evaporating. Criticism, advice and questions were jerked out with a naked candour which mysteriously robbed them of offence.
“She’s—a pretty kid,” he answered carelessly.
“I’ve never seen her, of course. She’s nothing more?” asked O’Rane.
“I was quite fond of her.”
“Nothing more?”