“No, Eden,” said the other, with a look on his face of such deep and serious meaning as to be almost tragic. “This is not the war cry you imagine, but it is a war cry nevertheless. You can shut your ears to it, if you feel so minded, and persuade yourself that there is no war in preparation. The streets of London are full of soldiers, but then they wear no red jackets, and carry no banners, and you needn't know that they are soldiers at all. You can safely let them march on, since they march without blare of trumpets and beat of drums.”
“All right, Chance, I'll have a shot at it before going to bed to-night”; and he was again about to thrust the paper into his pocket, feeling that he was getting tired of this kind of talk.
“Wait a moment, Eden,” said the other. “I'm afraid you do not quite know yet what the matter is all about. Allow me to look at the paper again.” Taking it, he found and asked his friend to read a rather long editorial paragraph.
This was all about the trumpet-tongued Merton Chance, congratulating the League on the accession to its ranks of so able a fighter with the pen—one who was only too ready to handle other weapons in their cause. It spoke of all he had nobly abandoned—social position, Government appointment, etc.—to cast in his lot with theirs; his brilliant and impassioned oratory, pitiless logic, with more in the same strain.
“I presume this is a socialistic print,” said Eden, after reading the paragraph. “Well, I can't say I congratulate you on your new—departure. Still, it is something to be thought well of by those you are working with, and you can't complain that your editor has not laid it on thick enough in this passage.”
Merton's brows contracted; he did not like this speech, and before replying swallowed a glass of claret.
“Eden,” he returned, “this is too serious a matter for a jest. But I do not think that anything is to be gained by discussing it. I should certainly gain nothing by informing you that everyone has a right to live, since a certain number of human beings must give up living, or, in other words, live like dogs, in order that you may have something beyond the mere necessaries of life—something to make your existence pleasant. This only I will say. If you are one of those who persistently shut their eyes to the fact that a change has come, that it will no longer be as it has been, then all I have to say is, My friend, I have warned you, and here we part company.”
“But not,” thought Eden, “before you have finished your second bottle of claret.” He only said, “I really never had any taste for politics,” and then added, “You have not said, Chance, whether your wife is with you in this new—departure?”
“My wife,” said Merton, somewhat loftily, “is always with me.” But more than that he did not say about his domestic affairs; nor did he even think to give his address before they separated.
Eden did not fail to write to Fan, telling her that he had seen and talked with Merton, and asking her to meet him at the Marble Arch on the next Sunday morning, when he would be able to tell her all that had passed between his friend and himself. She replied on the following day, promising to meet him, in one of her characteristic letters, which he always read over a great many times and admired very much, and which nevertheless had always had the effect of irritating him a little and making his hope for a time look pale. They were so transparently simple and straightforward, and expressed so openly the friendly feelings she had for him.