They were members, mostly, of that club, “The Left Wing,” into which she had desired, vainly, to beguile him. But he saw the types in her rooms, and didn’t like the look of them. They were egoists, conceited with their own superior “idealism,” poseurs of rebel philosophy, amateur Jacobins, without passion or sincerity.
Two of them were young men who had escaped service in the war by going to prison as Pacifists. No doubt that needed greater moral courage in a way than surrendering to the general tide of emotion and faith by getting into khaki. Theoretically he admitted the right, even the nobility of men who for conscience’ sake, religious belief or spiritual abhorrence of war—like the Quakers—dared public contumely by refusing services at such a time. It was contrary to his own convictions, for though he hated war, and knew its insanity, he believed that when once a people had become involved, they must stand in defence of their own country and of their own homes. Still, he understood the reasoning of men morally and utterly convinced of the Christian command, “Thou shalt not kill.”
But these young men who came to Janet’s flat had been Pacifists when their country was threatened, and now were revolutionists, talking very glibly of Lenin’s right to destroy the enemies of Russian liberty, and of the glorious prospect of a world revolution for the overthrow of the Capitalist system.
It was a young man named Lucas Melvin who aroused Bertram’s rage. Talking in the affected accent of Christchurch, at its worst, and playing with a silk handkerchief which he had drawn from his shirt cuff, he proclaimed his belief that Labour was about to overthrow the Government by “direct action.”
“This coming strike,” he said, “will lead to a general paralysis of industry. All the Trade Unions will unite for general action. I anticipate the pleasure of seeing a number of Profiteers and bourgeois hanging on the lamp-posts in Whitehall. Vive la Révolution Anglaise!”
This speech was received with laughter and applause, and the company was surprised when Bertram rose slowly from his low chair by the fireside, and stood with his back to the mantelpiece, glowering at Lucas Melvin, as though preparing to knock him down.
“I can’t pass that!” he said.
“Pass what, dear sir?” asked Melvin.
“That damned, insincere, and dangerous nonsense of yours.”
Melvin protested that he didn’t like those coarse words. He also objected to Bertram’s method of argument. It was neither elegant nor polite.