"Colcord"—Simec's white eyes rested professionally upon the host—"let us get to the root of your state of mind; your brief is for the individual as against the common good, is it not?"
Colcord frowned.
"Oh, I haven't any brief, Simec; I've never reasoned about the thing, that is, in a cold, scientific way. It's a matter of heart, I suppose—of instinct. I just can't seem to stand the calculating, sordid wastage of young life and all that it involves. Now, of course, it has come closer home. And it's terrible."
"You never would shoot anything for sport, would you, old fellow?" said Latham, sympathetically, "not even pheasants."
Colcord tossed his beautifully modelled head.
"Latham, I tell you, I'm soft; I'm the ultimate product of peace and civilization."
"Yes, you're soft, terribly so," smiled Dane. "I ought to know; I played opposite you at tackle for two years."
"Stuff! You understand what I mean, Jerry; I guess you all do. I've never talked this way before; as I say, I've always kept the war in the background, tried to gloss it over, forget it. But I couldn't; I've done a heap of thinking." He sat bolt upright, his clinched fist upon the table. "All these young chaps herded together and suddenly turned loose from all they've known and done and thought—I tell you I can't duck it any more."
"I know, old chap." Arnold Bates, who wrote light society novels, spoke soothingly. "It is—rotten. But what are you going to do about it?"
Colcord's fine brow was wrinkled painfully.