Cities, nations, civilisation, progress—it’s all over. That game’s up. We’re beat.” “But if that is so, what is there to live for?” The artilleryman looked at me for a moment. “There won’t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so; there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I reckon the game is up. If you’ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you’d better chuck ’em, away. They ain’t no further use.” “You mean—” “I mean that men like me are going on
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