You remember that in the
dim Victorian ages, when one great Latin scholar gave, as he
thought, the neatest possible translation of "The path of glory
leads but to the grave," another great Latin scholar declared that
all a Roman could have understood by it would have been "The path of
a public office leads to the jaws of the hillock"?'
The old Oxford joke was new in the ears of this Georgian generation,
and when the laugh subsided, Elizabeth said mildly:
'Now, please, may I have yours?'
'What--my translation? Oh--horribly unfair!' said the Captain,
chewing a piece of grass. 'However, here it is!'
He gave it out--with unction.
Elizabeth fell upon it in a flash, dissected and quarrelled with
every word of it, turned it inside out in fact, while the Captain,
still chewing, followed her with eyes of growing enjoyment.
'Well, I'll take a vote when I get back to the front,' he said, when
she came to an end. 'Several firsts in Mods on our staff. I'll send
you the result.'
The talk dropped. The mention of the front reminded every one of the
war, and its bearing on their own personal lot.
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