“You would have made a good politician, Westerling,” the premier remarked, with a twitching uplift of the brows and a knowing gleam in his shrewd old eyes.

“Thank you,” replied Westerling, appearing flattered, though secretly annoyed that any one should think that a chief of staff could care to change places with any man in the world.  Governments might come and go, but the army was the rock in the midst of the play of minor forces, the ultimate head of order and power.  “A man who is able to lead in anything must be something of a politician,” he said suavely.

“Very true, indeed.  Perhaps I had that partly in mind in making you vice-chief of staff,” responded the premier enjoyably.  “You spoke of the war fever at white heat,” he went on, returning to his muttons, “and of the army’s enthusiasm for its work.  There we come to the kernel in the nut, eh?” he asked, as he prodded the paper-knife into the palm of his hand.

“Drill, organization, discipline, and centralized authority and a high-spirited aristocracy of officers are most important,” said Westerling.  “But after that come morale and the psychology of the soldier.”  There he shrugged slightly, in indication of a resentment at the handicap of human nature in his work.  “The business of a soldier is to risk death in the way he is told.  The keener he is for his cause the better.  An ideal soldier is he who does not think for himself, but observes every detail of training and will not stop until halted by orders or a bullet.  Therefore we want the army hot with desire.  The officers of a company cannot force their men forward.  Without insubordination or mutiny the men may stop from lack of interest after only a very small percentage of loss.”

“Lack of interest!” mused the premier.  But Westerling, preoccupied with the literal exposition of his subject, did not catch the flash of passing satire before the premier, his features growing hard and challenging, spoke in another strain:  “Then it all goes back to the public—­to that enormous body of humanity out there!” He swung the paper-knife around with outstretched arm toward the walls of the room.  “To public opinion—­as does everything else in this age—­to the people!  I have seen them pressing close, about to remove me from power, and I have started a diversion which made them forget the object of their displeasure.  I have thought them won one day, and the next I realized that they were going against me.  Thank Heaven for the brevity of their memory, or we leaders would be hung high by our own inconsistencies!  He who leads sees which way they will go, rushes to the head of the procession, discovers them to themselves and turns a corner and they follow, thinking that they are going straight to the point.  But always they are there, never older, never younger, never tiring—­there, smiling or scowling or forgetting all about you, only to have a sudden fierce reminder overnight to surprise you—­and our masters, yours and mine!  For no man can stand against them when they say no or yes.”