“We all know what we have done ourselves, and what we failed to do. I give you the toast of our noble Allies, without whom there would be no Armistice to-night. I drink to the glory of France----” The words were heard at several tables, and for once there was a general acknowledgment of the toast. “_Vive la France!_” The shout thundered out from all the tables, so that the candelabra rattled. Five French interpreters in various parts of the room rose to respond. There were shouts of “The Stars and Stripes--Good old Yanks--Well done, the U.S.A.!” and I was sorry Dr. Small was still at Valenciennes. I should like him to have heard those shouts. An American staff officer was on his feet, raising his glass to “England.” Charles Fortune stood up at my table. He reminded me exceedingly at that moment of old prints portraying George IV. in his youth--“the First Gentleman of Europe”--slightly flushed, with an air of noble dignity and a roguish eye. “Go to it, Fortune,” said Brand. “Nobody’s listening, so you can say what you like.” “Gentlemen,” said Fortune, “I venture to propose the health of our late enemy, the Germans.” Young Clatworthy gave an hysterical guffaw. “We owe them a very great debt,” said Fortune. “But for their simplicity of nature and amiability of character the British Empire--that glorious conglomeration of races upon which the sun utterly declines to set--would have fallen into decay and debility as a second-class Power. Before the war the German Empire was gaining our trade, capturing all the markets of the world, waiting at table in all the best hotels, and providing all the music in the _cafés-chantants_ of the universe.... With that immense unselfishness so characteristic of their race, the Germans threw away these advantages and sacrificed themselves for the benefit of the British. By declaring war they enabled all the ancient virtues of our race to be revived. Generals sprang up in every direction--especially in Whitehall, Boulogne and Rouen. Staff officers multiplied exceedingly. British indigestion--the curse of our race--became subject to a Sam Brown belt. Business men, mostly bankrupt, were enriched enormously. Clergymen thundered joyfully from their pulpits and went back to the Old Testament for that fine old law, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ Elderly virgins married the youngest subalterns. The youngest flapper caught the eldest and wiliest of bachelors. Our people were revivified, gentlemen--revivified-” “Go easy,” growled Brand. “This is not a night for irony.” “Even I,” said Charles Fortune, with a sob of pride in his voice, “even I, a simple piano-tuner, a man of music, a child of peace and melody--Shut up, Brand!--became every inch a soldier!” He drew himself up in a heroic pose and, raising his glass, cried out: “Here’s to our late enemy--poor old Fritz!” A number of glasses were raised amidst a roar of laughter. “Here’s to Fritz--and may the Kaiser roast at Christmas!”