“This sort of crazy impulse to rush into other people’s rows,” Campton continued with rising vehemence, “is of no more use to a civilized state than any other unreasoned instinct. At bottom it’s nothing but what George calls the baseball spirit: just an ignorant passion for fisticuffs.”
Mr. Brant looked at him intently. “When did—George say that?” he asked, with his usual cough before the name.
Campton coloured. “Oh—er—some time ago: in the very beginning, I think. It was the view of most thoughtful young fellows at that time.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Brant, cautiously stroking his moustache.
Campton’s eyes again wandered about the room.
“Now, of course——”
“Ah—now....”
The two men looked at each other, and Campton held out his hand. Mr. Brant, growing pink about the forehead, extended his dry fingers, and they shook hands in silence.
XVIII
In the street Campton looked about him with the same confused sense as when he had watched Fortin-Lescluze driving away to Chalons, his dead son’s image in his eyes.