"Wouldn't you like him to dribble into the
great flood?"
She lifted her lean shoulders despairingly.
"He's the only son of a widow. Even in France and Germany they're
not expected to fight. But if he were different I would let him go
gladly--I'm not selfish and unpatriotic, Major," she said with an
unaccustomed little catch in her throat--and for the very first
time I found in her something sympathetic--"but," she continued,
"it seems so foolish to sacrifice all his intellectual brilliance
to such crudities as fighting, when it might be employed so much
more advantageously elsewhere."
"But, good God, my dear lady!" I cried. "Where are your wits?
Where's your education? Where's your intelligent understanding of
the daily papers? Where's your commonsense?"--I'm afraid I was
brutally rude. "Can't you give a minute's thought to the
situation? If there's one institution on earth that's shrieking
aloud for intellectual brilliance, it's the British Army! Do you
think it's a refuge for fools? Do you think any born imbecile is
good enough to outwit the German Headquarters Staff? Do you think
the lives of hundreds of his men--and perhaps the fate of
thousands--can be entrusted to any brainless ass? An officer can't
have too much brains.
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