Bernard Hall stared at his paper knife for a moment, and then looked at Bertram moodily.
“Janet Welford tells me you’re at a loose end, more or less.”
So it was Janet who had arranged this interview! Bertram felt embarrassed because of that and his face flushed a little.
“Considerably more than less,” he answered.
Bernard Hall smiled, icily, and then his face resumed its habitual mask of melancholy.
“Miss Welford and Christy have both spoken highly of that war book of yours. I’m not surprised you can’t get it published. People want to forget that time of madness. They’re getting a little ashamed of their own insanity. My job—and yours, I take it—is to force them to remember, so that it shan’t happen again very soon.”
“Quite so!” said Bertram.
Bertram Hall stared at his paper-knife again, as though its long blade symbolised some mystical thing.
“It’s going to happen again,” he said presently, “unless we can get some sense into the heads of the average man and woman. The politicians are just preparing the way for a new war, worse than the last—in twenty or thirty years from now. I’m inclined to think they’ll succeed. The only chance against it is the intensive education of peoples towards the international idea. We must try and link up with all active brains in Europe who are working for peace and commonsense. There are quite a number of them, but with scattered forces, powerless at the moment against the tremendous strength of reaction and militarism.”
Bertram wondered again what all this had to do with him. He was interested, but perplexed that Hall should spend half an hour on a busy afternoon to talk broodily about the state of Europe.