were alike and all their passions were alike.

The gaunt, ruthless autocrat of the War Office and the frail crowned
descendant of kings fronted each other across the open grave, and the
coffin sank between them and was gone. From the choir there came the
chanted and soothing words:

_Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song_.

G.J. just caught them clear among much that was incomprehensible. An
intense patriotism filled him. He could do nothing; but he could keep
his head, keep his balance, practise magnanimity, uphold the truth
amid prejudice and superstition, and be kind. Such at that moment
seemed to be his mission.... He looked round, and pitied, instead of
hating, the searchers after sensations.

A being called the Garter King of Arms stepped forward and in a loud
voice recited the earthly titles and honours of the simple little dead
man; and, although few qualities are commoner than physical courage,
the whole catalogue seemed ridiculous and tawdry until the being
came to the two words, "Victoria Cross". The being, having lived his
glorious moments, withdrew. The Funeral March of Chopin tramped with
its excruciating dragging tread across the ruins of the soul. And
finally the cathedral was startled by the sudden trumpets of the Last
Post, and the ceremony ended.

"Come and have lunch with me," said the young red-hatted officer next
to G.J. "I haven't got to be back till two-thirty, and I want to talk
music for a change. Do you know I'm putting in ninety hours a week at
the W.O.?"