Two other members came in immediately, one after the other.  The first, a little, very old and very natty man, began to read The Times at a stand.  The second, old too, but of larger and firmer build, with a long, clean-shaven upper lip, such as is only developed at the Bar, on the Bench, and in provincial circles of Noncomformity, took an easy-chair and another copy of The Times.  A few moments elapsed, and then the little old man glanced round, and, assuming surprise that he had not noticed G.J. earlier, nodded to him with a very bright and benevolent smile.

G.J. said: 

“Well, Sir Francis, what’s your opinion of this Ypres business.  Seems pretty complicated, doesn’t it?”

Sir Francis answered in a tone whose mild and bland benevolence matched his smile: 

“I dare say the complications escape me.  I see the affair quite simply.  We are holding on, but we cannot continue to hold on.  The Germans have more men, far more guns, and infinitely more ammunition.  They certainly have not less genius for war.  What can be the result?  I am told by respectable people that the Germans lost the war at the Marne.  I don’t appreciate it.  I am told that the Germans don’t realise the Marne.  I think they realise the Marne at least as well as we realise Tannenberg.”

The slightly trembling, slightly mincing voice of Sir Francis denoted such detachment, such politeness, such kindliness, that the opinion it emitted seemed to impose itself on G.J. with extraordinary authority.  There was a brief pause, and Sir Francis ejaculated: 

“What’s your view, Bob?”

The other old man now consisted of a newspaper, two seamy hands and a pair of grey legs.  His grim voice came from behind the newspaper, which did not move: 

“We’ve no adequate means of judging.”

“True,” said Sir Francis.  “Now, another thing I’m told is that the War Office was perfectly ready for the war on the scale agreed upon for ourselves with France and Russia.  I don’t appreciate that either.  No War Office can be said to be perfectly ready for any war until it has organised its relations with the public which it serves.  My belief is that the War Office had never thought for one moment about the military importance of public opinion and the Press.  At any rate, it has most carefully left nothing undone to alienate both the public and the Press.  My son-in-law has the misfortune to own seven newspapers, and the tales he tells about the antics of the Press Bureau—­” Sir Francis smiled the rest of the sentence.  “Let me see, they offered the Press Bureau to you, didn’t they, Bob?”

The Times fell, disclosing Bob, whose long upper lip grew longer.

“They did,” he said.  “I made a few inquiries, and found it was nothing but a shuttlecock of the departments.  I should have had no real power, but unlimited quantities of responsibility.  So I respectfully refused.”