"It's all very well for us. If it was only being killed—But there's killing."
"Of course there's killing. If a man's willing to be killed he's jolly well earned his right to kill. It's the same for the other johnnie. If your life doesn't matter a hang, his doesn't either. He's got his feeling. He's got his romance. If he hasn't—"
"Yes—if he hasn't?"
"He's better dead."
"Oh no; he might simply go slogging on without feeling anything, from a sense of duty. That would be beautiful; it would be the most beautiful thing."
"There you are, then. His duty's his romance. You can't get away from it."
"No."
But she thought: Supposing he went, loathing it, shivering, sick? Frightened. Well, of course it would be there too, simply because he went; only you would feel it, not he.
Supposing he didn't go, supposing he stuck, and had to be pushed on, by bayonets, from behind? It didn't bear thinking of.
John hadn't thought of it. He wouldn't. He couldn't see that some people were like that.