"Tempted," suggested Mayne drily. But he pushed a chair for his discourteous guest, and got down the tobacco-jar. "No man can fight the flesh and win, if he's living in idleness," he said reflectively, standing before the hearth and filling his pipe. "But there's another consideration. Do you realise that we are on the brink of war?"
"Kruger, perhaps."
"Steyn, too. You heard the news the other day? All the men ordered out on commando. What does that mean? The Orange Free State is going in against England."
"Well, they can fight their own blank battles without my help."
"That's rubbish, Mestaer. You'll have to fight on one side or the other. Now is the time to show yourself an Englishman. England wants men. They think at home that this war is to be a walk over. You and I know better. Go and enlist. There's a career for you."
"I'll be d—d if I do."
"That's a condition that seems to me far more likely to supervene if you don't," was the temperate reply.
Bert laid down his miserable head upon his arms.
"You don't see, and I can't explain," he said haltingly, "that it's not a thing—not a question of what you call the flesh. If there's such a thing as spirit anywhere in me, I've put it all in my love for her. If you take her away, I shall go to the devil."
"If I take her away! My dear chap, you cannot seriously mean to pretend that you think Millie wants to marry you?"