War is a terrible business." "It has been called the sport of kings," answered the Major, crossing his legs with an air of careless greatness, and looking more like the Prince Regent than ever.
"I have sometimes wondered, being of a reflective turn, on the--er-- far-reaching consequences of events which, to the casual eye, might appear insignificant.

An infant is born in the remote island of Corsica.

Years roll on, and we find our gardens denuded of a bulb, the favourite habitat of which must lie at least eight hundred miles from Corsica as the crow flies.

How unlikely was it, sir, that you or I, considering these tulips with what I may perhaps call our finite intelligence--" "Step around, Mr.Collector, and have a look at them.

You can unfold your argument over a glass of wine, if you will do me that pleasure." The Major had a high opinion of Mr.Pennefather's conversation; he was accustomed to say that it made you think.
"If you are sure, sir, it will not incommode you ?" "Not in the least.