man of fifty has his heart and lungs and liver and lights all dislocated he
may be pardoned for his chilly enthusiasm over the vulgar robustness of a
very young Brigadier.

On this March morning, however, when I was beginning, in sober joyousness,
to pick up the threads of English social life, the announcement of General
Lackaday gave me a real thrill of pleasure.

He came in, long, lean, khaki clad, red-tabbed, with, I swear, more rainbow
lines on his breast, and a more pathetically childish grin on his face
than ever. We greeted each other like old friends long separated, and fell
immediately into intimate talk, exchanging our personal histories of seven
months. Mine differed only in brevity from an old wife's tale. His had the
throb of adventure and the sting of failure. In October his brigade had
found immortal glory in heroic death. He had obeyed high orders. The
slaughter was no fault of his. But after the disaster--if the capture of an
important position can be so called--he had been summarily appointed to a
Home Command, and now was demobilized.

"Demobilized?" I cried, "what on earth do you mean?"

"It appears that there are more Brigadier-Generals in the dissolving Army,"
said he, "than there are brigades. I can retire with my honorary rank, but
if I care to stay on, I must do so with the rank and pay of a Major."

I flared up indignant. I presumed that he had consigned the War Office to
flamboyant perdition. In his mild way he had. The War Office had looked
pained. By offering a permanent Major's commission in the Regular Army,
with chance of promotion and pension, it thought it had dealt very
handsomely by Lackaday. It hinted that though he had led his brigade to