And all the time my brave army was fighting in Flanders, my navy was sweeping the North Sea, my million recruits were growing into soldiers. In Yorkshire my looms were busy, Armstrong's were turning out my guns, Northampton was giving my gallant boys their boots. Did an aeroplane shoot up into the sky, did a submarine dive into the deep, mine was the supporting hand. Was I not a god among men?
"Ten," said Celia—"eleven. What are you thinking about?"
I pitched my letter to the Assessor in the fire.
"I've been thinking about my war," I said. "Every shot that was fired while you were counting I paid for; I paid for the food of every soldier and sailor; for the separation allowances of their wives; for hospitals and ambulances and doctors."
"How lovely it sounds. I hadn't thought of it like that. It makes eleven seconds seem an age."
"It is an age. For eleven seconds French and Jellicoe were my men."
"Then I think you might have warned me," said Celia reproachfully, "so that we could have shared them."
"I'm sorry," I said. Then I had an idea. "It's all right," I said. "I made a mistake. Those weren't our eleven seconds at all; Carnegie or somebody paid for those. We'll have ours together later on."
"Well, let's see that they are good ones ... when we're having a victory. We might tell people that the last eleven seconds off the Falkland Islands were ours."
"But I hadn't paid then. Anyway, I don't think they begin to use my money till April 5th ... I say, Celia, let's do our eleven seconds in style. Let's make an occasion of it."