e good enough to remember for the future, sir,' said the
Chief of the Staff, 'that His Majesty does not require his lieutenants
to execute manoeuvres on their own responsibility, and also that to
attack a battery with three men is not war, but damned tomfoolery. You
ought to be court-martialled, sir!'

"Then, in somewhat different tones, the old soldier added, his face
softening into a smile: 'However, alertness and daring, my young friend,
are good qualities, especially when crowned with success. If the
Austrians had once succeeded in planting a battery on that hill it might
have been difficult to dislodge them. Perhaps, under the circumstances,
His Majesty may overlook your indiscretion.'

"'His Majesty not only overlooked it, but bestowed upon me the Iron
Cross,' concluded my friend. 'For the credit of the army, I judged it
better to keep quiet and take it. But, as you can understand, the sight
of it does not recall very pleasurable reflections.'"

To return to my diary, I see that on November fourteenth we held another
meeting. But at this there were present only "Jephson, MacShaugnassy,
and Self"; and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace. On
Christmas Eve we three met again, and my notes inform me that
MacShaugnassy brewed some whiskey-punch, according to a recipe of his
own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us. No
particular business appears to have been accomplished on either
occasion.

Then there is a break until February eighth, and the assemblage has
shrunk to "Jephson and Self." With a final flicker, as of a dying
candle, my diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much
light upon that evening's conversation.

Our talk seems to have been of many things--of most things, in fact,
except our novel. Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.

"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these
columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about
books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship
of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling
over playwright Harry. There is no soberness, no sense in it all. One
would think, to listen to the High Priests of Culture, that man was made
for literature, not literature for man. Thought existed before the
Printing Press; and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read
them. Books have their place in the world, but