“I say, Roop, what’s the most appealing name that the War has given to the history of Britain—­Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?”

“Gallipoli,” I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted.

“Just so.  And shall I tell you why?”

“Yes, thanks.  If you’ll be so obliging.”

“Well, it’s because the strongest appeal that can be addressed to the emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power called Pathos—­”

“Good heavens!” I began.

“And there, my boy,” pursued Doe, “in picture-form before you, this humid afternoon, is the answer to your question.”

“But it was your question,” I suggested.

“Don’t be a fool, Rupert.  Ask me what I mean.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“I mean this:  that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning to see the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, and presenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions.”

I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon he sat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made this irrelevant remark: 

“Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near my home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you think it’s anything like a lily?  For mercy’s sake say it is.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“And it does change colour in the changing light, doesn’t it, Rupert?  Say ‘Yes,’ you fool—­say ‘Yes.’”

“Why?”

“Oh, because I’ve written—­I’ve written some verses about it—­when I was a bit homesick, I s’pose—­and I’d like you to tell—­”

“Hand them over,” sighed I.

“I will, since you’re so pressing.  They’re in the Edgar Doe stanza.”

Doe gave me a soiled piece of paper, and watched me breathlessly.  I read: 

TRURO TOWER

      Stone lily, white against the clouds unfurled
          To mantle skies
          Where thunder lies,
      White as a virtue in a vicious world,
      Give to me, like the praying of a friend,
      White hope, white courage, where the war-clouds blend.

      Stone lily, coloured now in sunny chrome,
          Or washed with rose,
          As long days close,
      And weary English suns go west’ring home,
      Look East, and hither, where there turns to rest
      A homing heart that beats an English breast.

      Stone lily, first to catch the shaft of day,
          And first to wake
          For dawns that break
      While lower things are steeped in gloaming grey,
      Over my banks of twilight look and see
      The breezy morn that fills my sails for thee.

“Oh, you’ve felt like that, have you?” said I.  “So’ve I. Your poem exactly expresses my feeling, so it must be absolutely IT.”

“Rupert, you ripping old liar!” answered Doe, aglow with pleasure.

“No, I mean it; honestly I do.”