night to get on the subject of professions.

"It's a comfort," said the Major, in his sarcastic way, "to have a
fellow-soldier to talk to instead of a quill-driver, who as yet is
not even a penny-a-liner. Eh, Derrick? Don't you feel inclined to
regret your fool's choice now? You might have been starting off for
the war with Lawrence next week, if you hadn't chosen what you're
pleased to call a literary life. Literary life, indeed! I little
thought a son of mine would ever have been so wanting in spirit as
to prefer dabbling in ink to a life of action--to be the scribbler
of mere words, rather than an officer of dragoons."

Then to my astonishment Derrick sprang to his feet in hot
indignation. I never saw him look so handsome, before or since; for
his anger was not the distorting, devilish anger that the Major gave
way to, but real downright wrath.

"You speak contemptuously of mere novels," he said in a low voice,
yet more clearly than usual, and as if the words were wrung out of
him. "What right have you to look down on one of the greatest
weapons of the day? and why is a writer to submit to scoffs and
insults and tamely to hear his profession reviled? I have chosen to
write the message that has been given me, and I don't regret the
choice. Should I have shown greater spirit if I had sold my freedom
and right of judgment to be one of the national killing machines?"

With that he threw down his cards and strode out of the room in a
white heat of anger. It was a pity he made that last remark, for it
put him in the wrong and needlessly annoyed Lawrence and the Major.
But an angry man has no time to weigh his words, and, as I said,