"Yes," she said, "Lord FRENCH comes along on a fine cold Sunday morning and says to himself, 'Here are several hundred thousand men who are panting to make themselves useful. Let's recognise them," and from that moment you actually begin to exist. And then they bring down your grey hairs with sorrow into the Gazette, and, instead of being a Platoon Commander, you become a 2nd Lieutenant."
"'Tempy,'" I said; "don't forget the 'tempy.'"
"I won't," she said. "What does it mean? It sounds very irritable."
"It does," I said; "but as a matter of fact it's got nothing to do with my temper. It means temporary."
"Anyhow it's a difficult word to pronounce in four syllables. I shall do it in two."
"No, Francesca, you shall not. As the holder of His Majesty's Commission I cannot allow you to go about the country saying tempy when you mean tem-po-ra-ry."
"But why do they put in the word at all?"
"It's the War Office way of announcing that we're not to expect our new-born joys to last for ever."
"To the end of the War is long enough for most people at the present rate."
"Do not let us peer too anxiously into the dim and distant future. Let us be satisfied with such a present as fate has assigned to us in making me a 2nd Lieutenant temporary, with all the privileges that the words imply."