I hadn’t the least idea who he was⁠—this little ginger-haired soldier with a wizened and wistful face. But I saw that he wore the claret-colored ribbon of the V.C. on his khaki tunic. He gave me his name, and said the papers had “done him proud,” and that they had made a lot of him at home⁠—presentations, receptions, speeches, Lord Mayor’s addresses, cheering crowds, and all that. He was one of our Heroes, though one couldn’t tell it by the look of him.

“Now I’m going back to the trenches,” he said, gloomily. “Same old business and one of the crowd again.” He was suffering from the reaction of popular idolatry. He felt hipped because no one made a fuss of him now or bothered about his claret-colored ribbon. The staff-officers, chaplains, brigade majors, regimental officers, and army nurses were more interested in an airship, a silver fish with shining gills and a humming song in its stomach.