"Yes, Sir, these Zeppelin raids—words can't describe 'em. They're—well, if I might coin a word, Sir—I think they're 'orrible!"
WAR COMPUNCTION.
"I suppose we can't motor over to Potwick, lunch at 'The George,' and play a round of golf?" said the Reverend Henry.
"Not without feeling rather—well, rotters and outsiders," said Sinclair regretfully.
"At least we couldn't of course go in the big car," said I, "and we should be almost bound to have lunch at that little tea-shop, and it wouldn't do to play a whole round of golf."
"It is rather a nice point," said Henry, "what one can do in War time without feeling that one is stamping oneself. Sinclair here was shooting pheasants a fortnight ago."
"Well, the birds were there, you know," said Sinclair, "and it's a rotten slow business catching them in traps. Besides, we sent them all to the Red Cross people."