d vehemently. 'I hated you for thinking
English women would not aid their men to fight, and I wanted never to see
you again. But do you remember when I said that the glory of war was in
women's blood? There was a certain amount of truth in it at the
beginning; for when I first saw the wounded arrive I was madly excited.
I wanted to shout and cheer. But as the months have gone on, and I have
seen our soldiers maimed and bleeding and suffering, while thousands of
their women at home have simply broken loose and lost all sense of
decency or self-respect--oh, what's the use?'

'But you mustn't forget the women who have done such great things for the
country.'

'I know--but what's it all for? Since this battle of the Somme our
casualties have been frightful, and every day means so many of our real
men killed, and so many more shirkers and rotters in proportion to carry
on the life of England. We've had our women's revolution all right.
There are not many of the old barriers left; but what a mess we have made
of our freedom! When I think of all that, and then recall what you said
about war, I know that you were right, and we were wrong.'

'You are wonderfully brave,' said Selwyn, 'not only for having done so
much, but in telling me that.'

'No,' she said, lowering her eyes to the gloves which she held in her
hand; 'I have lost all my courage. Every night I feel as if another day
of meeting the wounded will kill me. . . . If it could only end!
Anything would be better than these awful casualty lists.'

'Elise'--he raised himself on his elbow and leaned towards her--'you
prove yourself a woman when you say that; but you're wrong. I can't give
my reasons yet, but since last night I have been seeing clearer and
clearer that Britain not only must not lose, but must _win_. I know
other men have said it ten thousand times, but only to-day have I begun
to see that, in its own strange, unidealistic manner, this Empire is
fighting for civilisation.'

'Then'--her eyes were lit with sudden, glistening radiancy--'then you
don't think our men have died uselessly?'

'I could not believe in God,' he answered, wondering at the calm
certainty of his voice uttering things which would have infuriated him a
few hours before, 'if I thought that this war's dead had fallen for
nothing.' His hand, which had been raised in gesture, fell limply on the
bed. 'Up to yesterday,' he went on slowly, 'I reasoned truth; to-day--I
feel trut