a Nissen hut) looked to them, no doubt, like a great General. He had his "heroic" face on, rather mystical and saintly. He had a variety of faces for divers occasions—such as the "sheep's face" in the presence of Generals who disliked brilliant men, the "intelligent" face—bright and enquiring—for senior officers who liked easy questions to which they could give portentous answers, the noble face for the benefit of military chaplains, foreign visitors to the war-zone, and batmen before they discovered his sense of humour; and the old-English-gentleman face at times for young Harding, who belonged to a county family with all its traditions, politics, and instincts, and permitted Fortune to pull his leg, to criticise Generals, and denounce the British Empire, as a licensed jester.
Fortune was addressing four gentlemen of the Town Council of Lille who stood before him, holding ancient top-hats.
"Gentlemen," said Charles Fortune in deliberate French, with an exaggerated accent, "I appreciate very much the honour you have just paid me by singing that heroic old song, 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary.' I desire, however, to explain to you that it is not as yet the National Anthem of the British People, and that personally I have never been to Tipperary, that I should find some difficulty in finding that place on the map, and that I never want to go there. This, however, is of small importance, except to British Generals, to whom all small things are of great importance—revealing therefore their minute attention to detail, even when it does not matter—which, I may say, is the true test of the military mind which is so gloriously winning the war, after many glorious defeats (I mean victories) and" (Here Fortune became rather tangled in his French grammar, but rescued himself after a still more heroic look) "and it is
