"We were not ready," he said between his teeth. "Nothing was ready. I could never have believed it was possible had I not seen it with my own eyes. If there had been a war, it would have been a repetition of 1870, with London for a Sedan, and they knew it. No horses, reduced regiments, a crowd of half-trained men pitted against a nation which has been ready for war any day in the last years! The thing was obvious."
"You were so sure," she said dully. "Everybody was so sure."
"No one knew until the test came," he answered. "The outside of things was well enough, and there were plenty of able statesmen and generals to tell us that we had never been better prepared. We like listening to that sort of talk, and we like believing it. A belief like that is so comforting. It frees us from all sacrifice—all duty. 'When the call comes, we shall answer to it,' is our patriotic motto. 'An Englishman is worth three foreigners.' And then, when the call comes, a handful of half-trained youths who cannot stand a day's march, who can scarcely ride, scarcely shoot, is all that we have to show for our boasting." He clenched his fist with a movement of angry despair. "It's all wrong, Nora, all wrong! We have grown too easy-going, too fond of our smooth comfort. Even if we knew that our national existence were threatened, we should not rouse ourselves. We should vote for a few more Dreadnoughts and make a great outcry and bang the Party drum with talk. We think, because we have the money, that things can't go far wrong—we have won before, so we think there is a kind of lucky star to save us, however little we have deserved success. We can't see that the world has changed, that we have to face a race that has all our virtues in their youth and strength—all our tenacity, all our bulldog purpose, all our old stoicism; and we—God knows! We never forget our grand heritage; we never forget our forefathers nor the glory they won for us. But we forget to honour them with our own worthiness. How will it all end?"
"Whether it be in peace or in war, surely only the fittest can win," she said thoughtfully. "It will not be the richest, or the best-armed nation, but the best, the worthiest. Pray God we may prove ourselves to be that nation!"
"Pray God!" he echoed thoughtfully.
For a minute they walked on in the gathering mist without speaking. Both were plunged in sad reflection, but in Nora's heart there had dawned a new relief, a new peace. Arnold had spoken without arrogance, with a proud humility, with a respect and admiration for those whom he had hitherto despised. She did not know what had brought about the change, but it comforted her, it brought her nearer to him; in some strange way it revived all her old love for England and her people. The squire's swaggering, her brother's calumnies had maddened her. She discovered dignity and candour in Arnold's words, and her aching heart filled with gratitude.
Suddenly he stopped short and faced her. She saw then that a new thought had arisen in his mind.
"Nora, have you heard from your husband?" he demanded.
She shook her head and went on walking, quickly, almost nervously.
"No."