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It was a common conversation. In 1913, you might ask a new acquaintance where he had gone to school, or what he did for a living. In 1916, it was this: what part of yourself did you most fear losing?

“I don’t hate you, don’t be absurd,” said Gaunt, although he did hate Ellwood a little, just then, hated him for his useless, incomprehensible eloquence, which did not belong at Loos, which reminded Gaunt of Preshute and England and things he did not want to think of until he could be sure he would have them again.

It seems unfair, doesn’t it? Our parents got to live their whole lives without anything like this.” “Busily building up the world that led to this.” “I suppose they thought they had their own problems,” said Ellwood. "No one ever thinks their life is easy.”

They had long ago learnt, in much more trying circumstances, how much easier it was to do one’s duty after tea than before.

He looked even more like a painting than usual. He radiated peace and prosperity. He was 1912; a world where savagery had been purged from the human spirit, for ever and ever.

“Hayes?” “Yes?” “Have you seen him cry like that before?” Hayes shifted on his feet. “I—I don’t like to say.” “Christ.” “He’ll be all right,” said Hayes. “He just needs a rest, that’s all. He’s tired. We’re all tired.” Tired. A new word ought to be invented, if this was tired.