Todmarsh was leading the way to the other part of the house.
“Wastrels; drunkards most of them,” he said shortly. “Discharged prisoners, sentenced for some minor offence. I told you that we meet prisoners on their release. Many of them are the wreckage—the aftermath of the War.”
The rector sighed.
“I know. It is deplorable. That terrible War—and yet, a most righteous War.”
“No war is righteous,” Aubrey said quickly. Then his expression changed, the rapt look came back to his eyes. They looked right over his uncle's head. “No war can be anything but cruel and wicked. That is why we have made up our minds that war shall stop.”
Mr. Collyer shook his head.
“War will never stop, my boy, while men and women remain what they are—while human nature remains what it is, I should say.”
Todmarsh's eyes looked right in front of him over the Community playing fields.
“Yes, it will! Quarrelling there will be—must be while the world shall last. But all disputes shall be settled not by bloodshed and horrible carnage, but by arbitration. Every day the League of Nations' labours are being quietly and ceaselessly directed to this end, and I think very few people realize how enormously the world is progressing.”
“Your Uncle Luke does not think so. He does not believe in the League of Nations,” Mr. Collyer dissented. “He, I regret to say, used a lamentably strong expression—‘damned rot,’ he called it!”