Miss Tolley appeared to be getting muddled. “Whose boy?” she demanded. “It’s war,” he said.!

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll sound him about giving up his lodgings.” “You can face it,” she said: “the possibility of all your life’s work being wasted?”

“It’s a noble ideal,” he said. “La Patrie! The great Mother. Right or wrong, who shall dare to harm her? Yes, if it was she who rose up in her majesty and called to us.” He laughed. “What does it mean in reality: Germania, Italia, La France, Britannia? Half a score of pompous old muddlers with their fat wives egging them on: sons of the fools before them; talkers who have wormed themselves into power by making frothy speeches and fine promises. My Country!” he laughed again. “Look at them. Can’t you see their swelling paunches and their flabby faces? Half a score of ambitious politicians, gouty old financiers, bald-headed old toffs, with their waxed moustaches and false teeth. That’s what we mean when we talk about ‘My Country’: a pack of selfish, soulless, muddle-headed old men. And whether they’re right or whether they’re wrong, our duty is to fight at their bidding—to bleed for them, to die for them, that they may grow more sleek and prosperous.” He sank back on his pillow with another laugh. “Oh, you know,” explained Flossie. “Like a volcano compressed into a steam engine.” “You have chosen the better part,” he informed her, on her granting it. “When I’m not smoking, I’m talking.”