“Oh, I know you can’t understand it,” said Verrinder. “It seems to be untranslatable into German––just as we can’t seem to understand Germanity except that it is the antonym of humanity. You fellows have no boyhood literature, I am told, no Henty or Hughes or Scott to fill you with ideas of fair play. You have no games to teach you. One really can’t blame you for being such rotters, any more than one can blame a Kaffir for not understanding cricket.
“But sport aside, use your intelligence, old man. I’ve laid my cards on the table––enough of them, at least. We’ve trumped every trick, and we’ve all the trumps outstanding. You have a few high cards up your sleeve. Why not toss them on the table and throw yourselves on the mercy of his Majesty?”
The presence of Marie Louise drove the old couple to a last battle for her faith. Lady Webling stormed, “All what you accuse us is lies, lies!”
Verrinder grew stern:
“Lies, you say? We have you, and your daughter––also Nicky. We have––well, I’ll not annoy you with their names. Over in the States they have a lot more of you fellows.
“You and Sir Joseph have lived in this country for years and years. You have grown fat––I mean to say rich––upon our bounty. We have loved and trusted you. His Majesty has given you both marks of his most gracious favor.”
“We paid well for that,” sneered Lady Webling.
“Yes, I fancy you did––but with English pounds and pence that you gained with the help of British wits and British freedom. You have contributed to charities, yes, and handsomely, too, but not entirely without the sweet usages of advertisement. You have not hidden that part of your bookkeeping from the public.
“But the rest of your books––you don’t show those. We know a ghastly lot about them, and it is not pretty, my dear lady. I had hoped you would not force us to publish those transactions. You have plotted the destruction of the British Empire; you have conspired to destroy ships in dock and at sea; you have sent God knows how many lads to their death––and women and children, too. You have helped to blow up munitions-plants, and on your white heads is the blood of many and many a poor wretch torn to pieces at his lathe. You have made widows of women and orphans of children who never heard of you, nor you of them. Nor have you cared––or dared––to inquire.