War is terrible enough already;
and, besides, I have parted with it. On my way home through Holland
I gave that suit to a couple of poor Belgian refugees, and I presume
they are still wearing it.
So far as I have been able to observe, the surgeons and the tailors
of these times share but one common instinct: If you go to a new
surgeon or to a new tailor he is morally certain, after looking
you over, that the last surgeon you had or the last tailor, did
not do your cutting properly. There, however, is where the
resemblance ends. The tailor, as I remarked in effect just now,
wants an hour at least in which to decide how he may best cover
up and disguise the irregularities of the human form; in much less
time than that the surgeon has completely altered the form itself.
With the surgeon it is very much as it is with those learned men
who write those large, impressive works of reference which should
be permanently in every library, and which we are forever buying
from an agent because we are so passionately addicted to payments.
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