The girl turned her dark eyes full upon Joan. “What did stop you?” she demanded. “Anything that can be done with a pen and ink,” she told him.!

“I’ll tell you who makes all the wars,” he said. “It’s you and me, my dears: we make the wars. We love them. That’s why we open our mouths and swallow all the twaddle that the papers give us; and cheer the fine, black-coated gentlemen when they tell us it’s our sacred duty to kill Germans, or Italians, or Russians, or anybody else. We are just crazy to kill something: it doesn’t matter what. If it’s to be Germans, we shout ‘A Berlin!’; and if it’s to be Russians we cheer for Liberty. I was in Paris at the time of the Fashoda trouble. How we hissed the English in the cafés! And how they glared back at us! They were just as eager to kill us. Who makes a dog fight? Why, the dog. Anybody can do it. Who could make us fight each other, if we didn’t want to? Not all the king’s horses and all the King’s men. No, my dears, it’s we make the wars. You and me, my dears.” “I must talk to Mary,” he added, “see if we can’t get you off on some promising young Under Secretary.”

“But I’ve got to give it up,” she added. “I can’t leave Dad.” “Does she know about Richmond Park—and the other places?” asked Flossie. “I can’t,” he answered. “I’m too great a coward.”