Then the next day would be fine and dry and warm, and it would be
early closing for the Bosch artillery, and the infantry would go
marching past my office window, whistling and singing and behaving as
if the whole thing was a jolly old picnic; and who'd be an inkslinger
in such weather? And Fortune, modestly intruding, would say to me
casually, "I think I've arranged that rather well, don't you?"

"Ah, you've arranged something at last, have you?" I'd say, assuming
that she must be thinking about me, and I'd open my official envelopes
with an unusual interest, feeling practically sure that one of them
must contain immediate orders for me--the one and only me--to proceed
forthwith to England and reorganise the War Office, taking over a
couple of six-cylinder cars and a furnished flat in St. James's for
the purpose.

Poor old Fortune! what could she say next? She'd look at me, more in
sorrow than in anger, and murmur, "Aren't you forgetting that this is
a war and you are supposed to be fighting it?" Did I blush for shame?
Not I. As bold as brass I'd look old Fortune straight in the face
and, with righteous indignation, would say, "I know as well as you do,
Ma'am, that it is a war; but there's no reason why it shouldn't be a
_just_ war." Thinking it out I have never been quite able to see what
I meant by that, as applied to my own case. However, I seem to have
said the right thing, and it appears to have impressed Fortune very
considerably, because--well, Charles, here I am.

Yet if there is justice in this world (and I subsist on the confident
hope and belief that there is not) I know what the end of it must be.
That confounded orderly, turned traitor, will one day search me out,