Gradually the other occupants of the room had come to let the souvenirs uninterruptedly exchange war impressions and speculate as to how long it would last--a problem as to which they were not more exactly informed than many a human wiseacre. Under cover of this kind of talk, which is apt to become noisy, the humdrum of the others, the chairs and the table and the mantelpiece, and the pacific ornaments, and the mirror, could chat in their own mild way; the wicker-chair, for example, could wonder for the thousandth time how long it would be before the young Captain sat in it once more; and the mirror could remark that that would be a happy moment indeed when once again it held the reflections of the Lieutenant and his _fiancée_, who was one of the prettiest girls in the world. "Do you think so?" the knob of the brass fender would inquire. "To me she seemed too fat and her mouth was very wide." "But that's a fault," the tongs would reply, "that you find with every one." To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than "I am probably unique," the Vimy Ridge inkstand said. "How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one of his own chief claims to distinction. "Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was not blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one, and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The papers are full of such incidents. But in my case--no. I remember," the inkstand was continuing-- "Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how tired I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do for ever but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly galling, because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the good we are any more, we--we warriors--we might as well be mouldy old fossils like the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement absolutely nothing." "That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice. "Who's speaking?" the shell asked. "I am," said the door. "You're quite right about yourselves--you War souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag a bit, but that's all. You're out of it. Whereas I--I'm in it still. I can make people run for their lives." "How?" asked the inkstand. "Because whenever I bang," said the door, "they think I'm an air-raid." * * * * * [Illustration: _Butler (the family having come down to the kitchen during an air-raid)_. "'YSTERIA--WITHIN REASON--I DON'T OBJECT TO. BUT WHAT I CAN'T STAND IS BRAVADO."] * * * * * CUSS-CONTROL. I found myself, some time ago, Growing too fond of cuss-words, so I made a vow to curb my passions And put my angry tongue on rations.