days. After a few days the one
interesting fact would be that he had joined. By such simple and curt
arguments did he annihilate the once overwhelming reasons against his
joining the Army.

But he did not trouble to marshal the reasons in favour of his joining
the Army. He had only one reason: he must! He quite ignored the larger
aspects of the war--the future of civilization, freedom versus slavery,
right versus wrong, even the responsibilities of citizenship and the
implications of patriotism. His decision was the product, not of
argument, but of feeling. However, he did not feel a bit virtuous. He
had to join the Army, and 'that was all there was to it.' A beastly
nuisance, this world-war! It was interfering with his private affairs;
it might put an end to his private affairs altogether; he hated
soldiering; he looked inimically at the military caste. An unspeakable
nuisance. But there the war was, and he was going to answer to his name.
He simply could not tolerate the dreadful silence and stillness on the
plain after his name had been called. "Pooh! Sheer sentimentality!" he
said to himself, thinking of the vision--half-dream, half-fancy. "Rotten
sentimentality!"

He asked:

"Damn it! Am I an Englishman or am I not?"

Like most Englishmen, he was much more an Englishman than he ever
suspected.

"What on earth are you doing, George?"

At the voice of his wife he gave a nervous jump, and then instantly
controlled himself and looked round. Her voice was soft, liquid, weak
with slumber. But, lying calmly on one side, her head half buried in the
pillow, and the bedclothes pushed back from her shoulders, she was
wideawake and gazed at him steadily.

"I'm just writing a letter," he answered gruffly.

"Now? What letter?"

"Here! You shall read it." He walked straight across the room in his gay
pyjamas only partly hidden by the splendid dressing-gown, and handed her
the letter. Moving nothing but her hand, she took the letter and held it
in front of her eyes. He sat down between the beds, on the edge of his
own bed, facing her.

"Whatever is it?"

"Read it. You've got it," he said, with impatience. He was trembling,
aware that the crisis had suddenly leapt at him.

"Oh!"

She had read the opening phrase; she had received the first shock. But
the tone of her exclamation gave no clue at all to her attitude. It
might mean anything--anything. She shut her eyes; then glanced at him,
terror-struck, appealing,