Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song.

G.J. just caught them clear among much that was incomprehensible.  An intense patriotism filled him.  He could do nothing; but he could keep his head, keep his balance, practise magnanimity, uphold the truth amid prejudice and superstition, and be kind.  Such at that moment seemed to be his mission....  He looked round, and pitied, instead of hating, the searchers after sensations.

A being called the Garter King of Arms stepped forward and in a loud voice recited the earthly titles and honours of the simple little dead man; and, although few qualities are commoner than physical courage, the whole catalogue seemed ridiculous and tawdry until the being came to the two words, “Victoria Cross”.  The being, having lived his glorious moments, withdrew.  The Funeral March of Chopin tramped with its excruciating dragging tread across the ruins of the soul.  And finally the cathedral was startled by the sudden trumpets of the Last Post, and the ceremony ended.

“Come and have lunch with me,” said the young red-hatted officer next to G.J.  “I haven’t got to be back till two-thirty, and I want to talk music for a change.  Do you know I’m putting in ninety hours a week at the W.O.?”

“Can’t,” G.J. replied, with an affectation of jauntiness.  “I’m engaged for lunch.  Sorry.”

“Who you lunching with?”

“Mrs. Smith.”

The Staff officer exclaimed aghast: 

“Conception?”

“Yes.  Why, dear heart?”

“My dear chap.  You don’t know.  Carlos Smith’s been killed. She doesn’t know yet.  I only heard by chance.  News came through just as I left.  Nobody knows except a chap or two in Casualties.  They won’t be sending out to-day’s wires until two or three o’clock.”

G.J., terrified and at a loss, murmured: 

“What am I to do, then?”

“You know her extremely well, don’t you?  You ought to go and prepare her.”

“But how can I prepare her?”

“I don’t know.  How do people prepare people?...  Poor thing!”

G.J. fought against the incredible fact of death.

“But he only went out six days ago!  They haven’t been married three weeks.”

The central hardness of the other disclosed itself as he said: 

“What’s that got to do with it?  What does it matter if he went out six days ago or six weeks ago?  He’s killed.”

“Well—­”

“Of course you must go.  Indicate a rumour.  Tell her it’s probably false, but you thought you owed it to her to warn her.  Only for God’s sake don’t mention me.  We’re not supposed to say anything, you know.”

G.J. seemed to see his mission, and it challenged him.

Chapter 11

THE TELEGRAM

As soon as G.J. had been let into the abode by Concepcion’s venerable parlour-maid, the voice of Concepcion came down to him from above: