He picked up his hat and walked through the window into the morning sunshine. O'Rane looked for a moment at the broad-shouldered back and massive head, then turned to me with a gesture of despair.
"When I get into the House, George," he said, "it'll be to fight your uncle. Years ago—the night after I left Melton—I told you in the garden at Crowley Court that we had given away our weakness before all Europe. There are not ten men in this country who understand Continental opinion. I called for ten years' reorganization of the Empire. Now it seems that every step we take to defend ourselves against attack makes Germany think we're preparing to attack her. Sooner or later there'll be a casus belli."
"Half a dozen years ago we were faced with an inevitable war with France," I reminded him. "Now we're the best of friends."
"There's been no Pan-French school since Sedan," he retorted. "I should be sorry to see England going down before the storm. With all its blemishes I think the civilization of this country is the finest in all the world." He stood opposite the window with the autumn sun shining on to his thin face, and as I looked there were tears in his great black eyes. "Any country," he went on tremulously, "that takes a steward from a Three-Funnel Liner and ... and ... and ..."
His voice died away. I knocked out my pipe and began filling it again.
"Come out into the garden, Raney," I said, taking his arm.
He laughed and obeyed.
"Burgess, too, used to say I wasn't accountable for my actions," he remarked.
"A little of your madness would make better men of a number of us," I said.
He stopped short to drink in all the misty damp beauty of the autumn morning, momentarily forgetful of me and of our conversation. Another moment and the mood was past.