The old man emerged from his brown study and looked up with scared eyes through his gold spectacles. He did not recognise the questioner: he never did—but he answered eagerly, and with wonderful firmness.
"It's Love. It can't be anything else."
"I don't know. War seems to me a funny sort of Love," the Colonel muttered.
"What's that?" asked the other.
"War," replied the Colonel. "There's a great European war on."
The old man, blind, puzzled, seeking, stopped dead.
"War?" he said. "What war's that?"
The Colonel explained.
"Austria's gone to war with Serbia. Russia's chimed in. Germany's having a go at Russia. And France is rushing to the rescue of her ally. Europe's ablaze from the Bay of Biscay to the Caucasus."
Edward Caspar blinked at the road as he absorbed the news. Then he gathered himself and went droning down the hill at increased speed with the erratic purposefulness of a great bumble-bee. There was something lofty, almost majestic about his bearing. In a moment he had increased in spiritual stature; and he was trying to straighten his rounded shoulders.