"Bah," I said, "a quibble. But tell me, wasn't it Nietzsche who taught the Germans to think they were supermen or whatever you call 'em?"
"Contrary to the opinion of the man in the street," said Arthur, looking at me rather meaningly, "Nietzsche did not write merely for the benefit of German people, nor did he approve, I should say, of the German idea of culture. You've been reading the evening papers; you're a wallower, that's what you are."
"I'm afraid," I said, "you also consider yourself a bit of a superman."
"I admit," he said, "that I've gone a long way."
"Towards Tipperary?"
"Beyond you," he said, tapping the page of Nietzsche he was reading; "we're not on the same plane."
"You can always get out and change," I said.
"Such flippancy," said Arthur, "is unbecoming in a lance corporal. What you want is a course of philosophy."
"What you want," I said, "is a course of musketry." Arthur, who, like me, is rising forty-six, is sound enough for home defence, but isn't in any Force yet. So, being a lance corporal in the "United Arts" myself, I feel I can throw advice of this sort at him freely.
"I'm going to give you a mental prescription," he said, taking out a pencil and scribbling on an envelope. "Have you read this—Ludovici's Who is to be Master of the World?"