“The mob did most of the dying in the Great War, and now ask for a decent living wage!”
“For high wages and no work!” answered Kenneth in his best unimpassioned, smiling, and supercilious manner, which had made him successful as President of the Union, during his third year at Oxford.
He begged Bertram not to be led astray by the snobbish witticisms of his friends in a pampered democracy, not to be spellbound by their facile and foolish catchwords. He disliked the suggestion that the mob did most of the dying in the great war. The gently of England, the old aristocracy, poured out their blood like water in a prodigal way at the outset as at the end, while crowds of lazy young hooligans had to be coaxed and bribed to do their duty, and then conscripted.
Even then they took refuge behind “special trades,” “essential occupations.” There were no essential occupations as an excuse for staying at home by boys from public schools and universities and county families. They just went out and died, if need be, without a whine.
“That’s true,” said Bertram; “they played up all right. None better.”
“I’m glad you admit that, Bertram!” said Joyce in her satirical voice, which Bertram knew was a challenge.
She was in the drawing-room of their house in Holland Street, lying back on the sofa among a heap of flaming cushions, with her legs tucked up, revealing her long silk stockings. A charming, slim, golden-crowned figure in a close-fitting jumper, so young and fresh that it was difficult even for Bertram to believe that she had been the mother of a child. How beautiful she was! How good to see her well again!
“Why shouldn’t I admit it? Why should I even ‘admit’ it? It’s an historical fact!”
“You’re always taking sides with the common people. Backing up Labour with a big L. It’s disloyalty to Us.”
Bertram shifted moodily in his seat—a low window seat looking out to the street where a Punch and Judy show was being performed to a small crowd of children and nursemaids.