She fancied it might
cheer her up. But the noisy patriotism of the over-fed crowd only
irritated her. These elderly, flabby men, these fleshy women, who would
form the spectators, who would loll on their cushioned seats protected
from the sun, munching contentedly from their well-provided baskets while
listening to the dying groans rising upwards from the drenched arena. She
glanced from one podgy thumb to another and a feeling of nausea crept
over her.
Suddenly the band struck up "God Save the King." Three commonplace
enough young men, seated at a table near to her, laid down their napkins
and stood up. Yes, there was something to be said for war, she felt, as
she looked at their boyish faces, transfigured. Not for them Business as
usual, the Capture of German Trade. Other visions those young eyes were
seeing. The little imp within her brain had seized his drum again.
"Follow me"--so he seemed to beat--"I teach men courage, duty, the laying
down of self. I open the gates of honour. I make heroes out of dust.
Isn't it worth my price?"
A figure was loitering the other side of the street when she reached
home.
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