The Philosopher nodded blandly.
“So soon? And no doubt you are full of pleasurable anticipation? When one is young and has nothing very important to do, the idea of killing Germans must be more thrilling than an invitation to a grouse moor!”
The Sentimentalist looked pained and vexed—she was about to speak, but a glance from Jack silenced her.
“Quite so!” he agreed, amicably. “I’d rather kill Germans than grouse any day!”
“I envy you your humane ideas!” said the Philosopher, smiling. “Allow me to wish you a safe journey to France and all the excitement you want when you get there! It’s a great thing to be a defender of the Empire—a ve-ry great thing!—for those who consider the Empire worth defending! To a scholar and student of history, all empires are alike,—one is no worse and no better than the other, and the well-balanced man would as soon fight for Germany as Britain. Both are arrogant powers,—and it entirely depends on which sort of arrogance one prefers—military or commercial. But I forgot!—you are not British—you are American! Being so, I rather wonder you should fight at all!”
“It is curious, isn’t it!” and Jack treated him to a broad smile and a glance which took in the battered “Homburg” hat, the weedy coat, and the large boots of the learned man. “But—it amuses me!”
Something in the flash of the young man’s eyes—a lightning gleam of boldness and mirth—struck with an unusual force through the leathery consciousness of the Philosopher and made him feel uncomfortable just for a moment. He knew well enough what this voluntary soldier was prepared to meet,—the roar of guns, the crash of shells, the flying bombs, each instrument carrying death where it fell—and the light dismissal of danger in the phrase “It amuses me”—did for a brief interval move the student of many books to a sense of reluctant admiration as well as regret that he, too, was not young enough to fling a defiance at the hurling blows of the enemy. But, as a matter of fact, he had never been truly “young”—for even as a boy his utter self-absorption had set him apart from his fellows. At college, his aloofness had gained him many a “ragging,” though certain dry-as-dust professors thought they foresaw the ripening of “genius” in his unnatural self-satisfaction,—a mistake of course, and not the first by any means that dry-as-dust professors have made in their estimation of their students. There was not a touch of “genius” in him,—there was only a very great ability, chiefly shown in the absorption of other people’s ideas. Just now he took a couple of minutes to recover from the slight rap Jack had unconsciously given to his carefully balanced mentality—then he said, suavely and graciously—
“It is fortunate for the country that it can find young men who are willing to be ‘amused’ by fighting for a cause which is not their own,” and a small, grim smile furrowed his features. “In fact, I consider the war a positive godsend to the youth of both sexes—a godsend, I tell you! It makes a clearance of the useless under the name of ‘patriotism’ and it gives the idle—especially idle women—something to do.”
“Do you know any idle women?” Jack asked. “I’ve never met one.”
The Philosopher glared at him.