“Nowhere any spunk?” said Struthers, in his flat, metallic voice.
“No,” said Richard.
And again the uncomfortable silence.
“There was plenty of spunk in the war,” said Struthers.
“Of a sort. And because they felt they had to, not from choice.”
“And mayn’t they feel they have to again?” said Struthers, smiling rather grimly.
The two men eyed one another.
“What’ll make them?” asked Richard.
“Oh—circumstances.”
“Ah well—if circumstances.” Richard was almost rude. “I know if it was a question of war the majority of returned soldiers would join up in a month—in a week. You hear it over and over again from the Diggers here. The war was the only time they ever felt properly alive. But then they moved because they hated the Germans—self-righteously hated them. And they can’t quite bring it off, to hate the capitalist with a self-righteous hate. They don’t hate him. They know that if they themselves got a chance to make a pile of money and be capitalists, they’d jump at it. You can’t work up a hate, except on fear. And they don’t fear the capitalist, and you can’t make them. The most they’ll do is sneer about him.”