The supposition, sounding through those piping times of peace, rang fantastic. Napier remembered, long after, how he had looked round Kirklamont hall and saw that apart from Sir William there wasn't a soul there who believed in the possibility of war, except one. That one—Miss Greta.
"Monstrous as it would be to force Servia into political slavery," Julian admitted gravely, "there would be one thing worse."
Nan at last lifted her voice. "What would the worst thing be?"
"War," answered Julian.
"What, what!" Sir William caught him up. "There are worse things than war, young man."
"There's nothing worse than war. Fortunately, we've reached a place where the mass of the people know that."
As the awful prospect unfolded, people were not appalled, though they said they were. They weren't even unhappy. They were far too excited. And to be excited about matters of world-wide importance is to be lifted out of the petty round and to catch at the crumbs of greatness.
Napier went up to town with Sir William. At close quarters with official minds, the younger man shared those hours of anxious hope, bred by the earlier interchange between Petersburg and Berlin, London and Belgrade.
Still, and without ceasing, though too late, as was seen in the retrospect, England worked for peace.