Gerald appeared suddenly, in the winter of 1915, at the office of Horton’s _New Voice_. Now that Horton has left England on his adventure in un-individualism one does not hear much of _The New Voice_, but at that time and for long before _The New Voice_ was, of course, a power, and Horton was a Power. Quite apart from Horton’s personal quality, you knew he was a Power because several of the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time kept on bitterly pointing out to their million readers what a futile man Horton was. Quite a number of the men whose names you can “conjure with” now--it would be fun to meet that man who is always in the street conjuring with names!--had begun by writing for Horton’s paper; but they had always gotten on his nerves by the time they had become the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time, and, since Horton was an honest man, he told them so, and he told them why, and he told them off, and they were furious. But the most inspired among the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time revenged themselves by republishing their _New Voice_ stuff in book-form and omitting to mention _The New Voice_ as the first medium of publication. That was discourteous of them. We were correcting proofs when Gerald appeared. It was a Monday afternoon, and on Monday afternoons any of Horton’s writers who wished could turn up and correct either his own or some one else’s proofs and then go and have tea at the A.B.C. And Talk. “Hello!” said Horton. “Hel_lo_!” “Defence of the Realm,” murmured Home. We were not prepared for Gerald. We had, of course, seen soldiers before; indeed, there was one in the room at the moment, the philosopher Home, who was to be killed a year or so later. But Gerald was a Figure, he was martial. The herald of the dominion of hell upon earth, that was Gerald. Take one small, frowsty room, the staff (Miss Veale) addressing wrappers at a desk by the window, Horton blue-pencilling at the other desk by the door, four of us sitting cramped round correcting proofs on bound annuals of _The New Voice_ on our knees, smoking, muttering--enter six-foot-two of the Brigade of Guards with a face as dark as night and the nose of a hawk and the eyes of one who has seen Christ crucified in vain. The panoply of war sat superbly on Gerald. He looked a soldier in the real rather than in the technical sense of the word: he looked, you know, as though he had accepted death and was just living anyhow in the meanwhile. Ah, see him then! Not even Gerald’s malevolent slackness in attire could make that long-waisted grey coat with the red-silk lining sit on him but imperially. Not Gerald’s the common-or-garden chubby face of a Guard’s subaltern. Gerald was no chap. He glowered at us. “Eh,” he stammered. “I say ... I’ve been told you people....” “He’s heard about us,” said Home sympathetically. “Sit down, boy. On the floor, I’m afraid.” Gerald began a fierce scowl at him--then grinned. Dear Gerald!