That's the sort of tonic we
all want, to remind us that we are human beings with blood in our
veins, and not sawdust-stuffed dolls."
Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his mouth, and he
addressed Aynesworth.
"Walter," he said, "you are talking rot. There is nothing very complex
or stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one another
unseen; where you feel the sting in your heart which comes from God
knows where, and you crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at
the chap who has potted you from the trenches, or behind a rock, a
thousand yards off. Mine is going to be, except from a spectacular
point of view, a very barren sort of year, compared with what yours
might be if the fire once touched your eyes. I go where life is cruder
and fiercer, perhaps, but you remain in the very city of tragedies."
Aynesworth laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette.
"City of tragedies!" he exclaimed. "It sounds all right, but it's
bunkum all the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me
where to stir the waters."
Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change in
Lovell's face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this last
evening amongst his old friends had disappeared. His face had fallen
into graver lines, his eyes seemed fixed with a curious introspective
steadiness on a huge calendar which hung from the wall. When at last
he turned towards Aynesworth, his tone was almost solemn.
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