“Precisely. That’s where your typically Western point of view is of great interest to me. I hope, therefore, you see that the question I put to you, although it may be one of curiosity, is of philosophical and not idle curiosity.” “I see,” replied Godfrey, smiling and mollified. “May I ask you which of the two attitudes you consider the most workable in practical life?” “I told you just now,” said Baltazar, “that my mind was in process of adjustment.” There came a slight pause. Godfrey broke it by suggesting politely that Mr. Burden must have found Cambridge greatly changed. Baltazar launched into vivid description of the toga giving way to arms. Eventually came to personalities. The death of Dr. Crosby’s only son. “Yes. I heard,” said Godfrey. “Fine soldier. Done in by high explosive shell. Not a trace of him or six others left. Not even the heel of a boot.” “How lightly you all take death nowadays,” Baltazar remarked wonderingly. “That oughtn’t to surprise you,” said Godfrey. “I’ve been led to believe they don’t worry their heads much about it in China.” “I thought it one of the points at which East and West could never touch.” He laughed. “More readjustment, you see.” “In the Army we’ve got either to be fatalists or lunatics. If your number’s up it’s up, and that’s all there is to it. _You_ can’t do anything. You can’t even run away.” “But surely you cling to life—young men like you—with all sorts of golden promises in front of you?” “We don’t do silly ass things,” said Godfrey. “We don’t stand about like Ajaxes defying the lightning. When shells come we scurry like rabbits into the nearest funk-hole. We’re not a bit brave unless there’s no help for it. But when you see so many people killed around you, you say ‘My turn next,’ and it doesn’t seem to matter. You think ‘Who the blazes are you that you should be so precious?’ . . . No. Going out all in the fraction of a second like Crosby doesn’t matter. Why should it? What does give you a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach is the fear lest you may be utterly messed up and go on living. But death itself is too damned ordinary. At any rate, that’s the way I size it up. Of course it’s pretty cheap and easy for a lucky beggar like me, who’s out of it for ever, to talk hot philosophic air—but all the same, looking back, I think I’ve told you in a vague sort of way what I felt when I was out in France. Sometimes the whole thing seems a nightmare. At others, I want to kick myself for sitting here in luxury when there’s so much to be done out there. I had got my platoon—I was acting first lieutenant—like a high-class orchestra—just the last two months, you know. It was the weirdest feeling. I just had to wave my baton and they did everything I wanted. Once or twice I nearly cried with sheer amazement. And then just when the band was playing its damndest, I got knocked out and fainted like a silly fool, and woke up miles away. When