He said: "No man ever born, since Christ, has dared to be himself. No woman, either.... I think our children will begin to dare."
She mused, wide-eyed, wondering.
"And he who takes up a sword," he said in a low voice, "shall find himself alone like a mad dog in a city street, with every living soul bent upon his extermination.
"Thus will perish emperors and kings. Our children's children shall have heard of them, marvelling that we had lived to see them pass away into the mist of fable."
After a while she lifted her face and looked at him out of wistful eyes:
"Meanwhile you fight for them," she said.
"I am of today—a part of the mock mystery and the tarnished tinsel. That grey old man of Austria quarrels with his neighbour of Servia, and calls out four million men to do his murders for him. And an Emperor in white and steel buckles on his winged helmet summons six million more in the name of God.
"That is a tragedy called 'Today.' But it is the last act, Karen. Already while we hold the stage the scene shifters are preparing the drama called 'Tomorrow.'
"Already the last cues are being given; already the company that held the stage is moving slowly toward the eternal wings. The stage is to be swept clean; everything must go, toy swords and cannon, crowns and ermine, the old and battered property god who required a sea of blood and tears to propitiate him; the old and false idol once worshiped as Honour, and set upon a pedestal of dead bones. All these must go, Karen—are already going.... But—I am in the cast of 'Today'; I may only watch them pass, and play my part until the curtain falls."
They remained silent for a long time. The train had been running very slowly. Presently it stopped.