In the days when Lord Kitchener, the invincible bachelor, was remaking
the British Indian forces, a youthful officer asked for a furlough to go
home and be married. Kitchener listened patiently, and then spoke kindly.
“Kenilworth, you’re not yet twenty-five. You’re in the midst of a piece
of work I value and which you’re doing excellently. Wait a year. By that
time you’ll have cleaned the slate and tried out your own mind. If then
you still desire to do this thing, speak to me again, and you shall have
leave; and I’ll take you back on the staff afterwards.” The year passed,
and the officer once more proffered his request. “And you really tell
me,” asked Kitchener, “that after thinking it over for twelve months you
still wish to marry?” “Yes, sir, very much indeed.” “Adjutant,” commanded
Kitchener, “Kenilworth is to have furlough to go to his own wedding. And
frankly, my boy, I scarcely thought there was so much constancy in the
masculine world.” Kenilworth about faced and marched to the door, but
there turned and said, “Thank you, sir. Only it’s not the same woman.”
* * * * *