Bertrand nodded. "The authorities don't allow anybody to go to it now, so there's nothing for the promoters to do but come back to England. I met Mrs. Welman as I was putting on my coat, and she said, 'Isn't this war dreadful? There'll be no Season this year.' I said to her, 'Mrs. Welman, the saddest thing about this war is the number of people who haven't been killed.'"
As we turned into St. James's Park, Bertrand paused and swept his arm demonstratively round.
"Little has been left of the London I knew as a boy," he said—"or of the England, or the world, for that matter. It's all changed—except Man. I'm old, George: devilish near eighty. Half a century ago, when I was your age, I used to think we were moving slowly upwards; our laws, our sports, our whole attitude of mind, everything seemed to be becoming more humane. Bless my soul! I went to cockfights when I was a youngster! And I've seen men hanged in public outside Newgate.... When the war came I watched my ideals being blown away like cobwebs over the mouth of a gun.... I—I outgrew that phase. And though there was a reaction and I thought I saw the country sobering, hang me if I haven't outgrown that phase too! If we non-combatants can't keep the promises we made to ourselves eight short months ago ... is it only want of imagination, George?... There's but one person I see much whose life has been changed by the war—and I don't know how long it will last there. You know your friend Miss Dainton washes saucepans and cleans grates?"
"And a number of other things," I said.
"Her brother's death——"
"It began before that, Bertrand."
"I believe it did. She's got pluck, that girl. I shall be sorry to lose her."
"Is she leaving the hospital?"
He nodded.
"She's strained her heart. Nothing serious, but she's got to rest. As soon as I can get someone to take her place she's leaving me. Well, she's the one and pretty well the only one. George, I can't believe the people of this country is the rotten stuff it pretends to be!"