“What made you begin it?” asked Bertram.
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“It was a war of Capital. We were all silly sheep.”
Bertram went on eating, and wished the man would go. He wanted to be alone. But the man stood by his chair and was anxious to talk.
“I suppose they still hate us in England?”
“They’re not fond of you,” said Bertram.
The man sighed again, noisily.
“I was very happy in Manchester. . . . You will find no hate against the English in Germany. Not much. We know you believe in ‘fair play.’ Not like the French!”
“You don’t like the French?”
The man’s face suddenly deepened in colour, and there came into his eyes a look of rage.