"Oh, it's magnificent, Dick, magnificent! I have no words to tell you how glad I am about this. I see John Crondall's hand here, don't you?"
"Yes," I said; and thought: "Naturally! You see John Crondall everywhere."
"He was dead against any sort of an Alliance while we were under a cloud. And he was right. The British people couldn't afford to enter any compact upon terms of less than perfect equality and independence. But now—why, Dick, it's a dream come true: the English-speaking peoples against the world. It's Imperial Federation founded on solid rock. No! With its roots in the beds of all the seven seas. And never a hint of condescension, but just an honourable pact between equals of one stock."
"Yes; and a couple of years ago——"
"A couple of years ago, there were Englishmen who spat at the British Flag."
"There was a paper called The Mass."
Constance smiled up at me. "Do you remember the Disarmament Demonstration?" she said.
"Do you remember going down Fleet Street into a wretched den, to call on the person who was assistant editor of The Mass?"
"The person! Come! I found him rather nice."
"Ah, Constance, how sweet you were to me!"