“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can imagine.”
“No, no—oh, no!”
“I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me—out to his duty.”
“Duty” always elicited a groan.
“He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly work—dull country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A nation who can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder England has become an Empire.”
“Empire!”
“I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little sadly. “They are too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London—”
“What it is,” he sneered.
“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilization. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.”
“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilization without activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other place.”