HILDA (looking up at him tenderly). O Will, do you remember when he was born? (He soothes her.) And all we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about war. (With a shrug of her shoulders) None of it has mattered.
WHITE. War is stronger than all that.
HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him?
WHITE. He fears I will?
HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't?
WHITE (wearily). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these days?
HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes.
WHITE. That's never been my way.
HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too.
WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all wrong? (She looks at him, as she holds his hand.) What could these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of war? May it not become so terrible that men—the workers, I mean—will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than talk—talk—talk?