‘You know,’ Major Norman’s voice, coming from the depths of the armchair, was the most unmilitary voice in the Fifth Battalion, the bleating, piping, fantastically-affected voice of a musical comedy caricature, ‘you know, I can’t imagine why you trudge around this camp every night. The men probably loathe you for it.’ The slim and beautifully-attired upper half of his body appeared as he sat up and looked at the colonel with large, reproachful eyes. ‘Every evening after tea,’ he announced, ‘I say blast their hides and forget about ’em till the next morning. I am a thoroughly selfish beast; I have no social conscience; I loathe Welfare, and all that is therein; and I thank God for people like you who make it possible for people like me to loaf by the stove and persistently shirk our responsibilities.’

The colonel sipped his coffee appreciatively. ‘Damn good stuff this,’ he said heavily. ‘Lucky we don’t remember what real coffee tastes like!’

He blew his nose and began to fiddle with his pipe. ‘The Brigadier can never understand how we get on so well together, Noel,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wonder myself.’

‘It’s because we both see through each other so easily,’ said Norman.

‘Perhaps. But it’s funny, all the same. Take a chap like me. Plain man, come up through the Terriers. Work for my living. And an educated chap like you. Don’t I bore you stiff?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Norman, ‘you fascinate me. It’s my own kind that bore me. They’re all cut so precisely to pattern. But you plain people are so immeasurably profound and always so capable of the unexpected.’

‘That’s nice to know,’ said the colonel. ‘I must say I always like to listen to you even when I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’

He opened his writing case. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I won’t keep you from your book. I’ve got a couple of letters to write.’

‘One to the wife,’ said Norman.

‘Yes,’ said the colonel.

‘And one to the boy.’

‘Yes,’ replied the colonel, a little defiantly, and bent to his writing.