the dead
man was now befouled by the calculating and impure praise of schemers.
Another trifle!

As the service proceeded G.J. was overwhelmed and lost in the grandeur
and terror of existence. There he sat, grizzled, dignified, with the
great world, looking as though he belonged to the great world; and
he felt like a boy, like a child, like a helpless infant before the
enormities of destiny. He wanted help, because of his futility. He
could do nothing, or so little. It was as if he had been training
himself for twenty years in order to be futile at a crisis requiring
crude action. And he could not undo twenty years. The war loomed about
him, co-extensive with existence itself. He thought of the sergeant
who, as recounted that morning in the papers, had led a victorious
storming party, been decorated--and died of wounds. And similar deeds
were being done at that moment. And the simple little man in the
coffin was being tilted downwards from the catafalque into the grave
close by. G.J. wanted surcease, were it but for an hour. He longed
acutely, unbearably, to be for an hour with Christine in her warm,
stuffy, exciting, languorous, enervating room hermetically sealed
against the war. Then he remembered the tones of her voice as she had
told her Belgian adventures.... Was it love? Was it tenderness? Was
it sensuality? The difference was indiscernible; it had no importance.
Against the stark background of infinite existence all human beings
were alike and all their passions were alike.

The gaunt, ruthless autocrat of the War Office and the frail crowned
descendant of kings fronted each other across the open grave, and the
coffin sank between them and was gone. From the choir there came the
chanted and soothing words:

_Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song_.

G.J. just caught them clear among much that was incomprehensible. An
intense patriotism filled him. He could do nothing; but he could keep
his head, keep his balance, practise magnanimity, uphold the truth
amid prejudice and superstition, and be kind. Such at that moment
seemed to be his mission.... He looked round, and pitied, instead of
hating, the searchers after sensations.

A being called the Garter King of Arms stepped forward and in a loud
voice recited the earthly titles and honours of the simple little dead
man; and, although few qualities are commoner than physical courage,
the whole catalogue seemed ridiculous and tawdry until the being
came t