about the army, Gerald. You see, there are some people who say,
like your American friend, that we are even now almost on the brink
of war."

"All the more reason for me to hurry," the boy begged.

Mr. Fentolin closed his eyes.

"Don't!" he insisted. "Have you ever stopped to think what war
means--the war you speak of so lightly? The suffering, the misery
of it! All the pageantry and music and heroism in front; and behind,
a blackened world, a trail of writhing corpses, a world of weeping
women for whom the sun shall never rise again. Ugh! An ugly thing
war, Gerald. I am not sure that you are not better at home here.
Why not practise golf a little more assiduously? I see from the
local paper that you are still playing at two handicap. Now with
your physique, I should have thought you would have been a scratch
player long before now."

"I play cricket, sir," the boy reminded him, a little impatiently,
"and, after all, there are other things in the world besides games."

Mr. Fentolin's long finger shot suddenly out. He was leaning a
little from his chair. His expression of gentle immobility had
passed away. His face was stern, almost stony.

"You have spoken the truth, Gerald," he said. "There are other
things in the world besides games. There is the real, the tragical
side of life, the duties one takes up, the obligations of honour.
You have not forgotten, young man, the burden you carry?"