And yet he had all
the things he had once wanted. Now Betteridge had left, he was
indisputably the big man in the House. Rudd was a broken reed. At last
he began to see that the mere trappings of power might deceive the
world, but not their wearer.

A week before the Two Cock Tester paid an unexpected week-end visit. He
was full of vitality and exuberance. He was just the same, debonair,
light-hearted, thoroughly happy. Everyone was pleased to see him; he was
pleased to see everyone. He was almost hilarious. But as Gordon watched
him carefully, his mirth seemed like that of Byron in _Don Juan_,
laughter through his tears. The others did not notice, because they had
never known Tester.

Just after prayers he met Tester on his way back from supper with the
Chief.

"Hullo! I have been looking for you," he said; "come for a stroll round
the courts."

"Well," said Tester, as soon as they were out of earshot, "what do you
make of it?"

"Pretty awful."

"Yes, I suppose you have seen a good many ideals go tumbling down. All
our generation has been sacrificed; of course it is inevitable. But it
is rather hard. The older men have seen some of their hopes realised; we
shall see none. I don't know when this war will end; not just yet, I
think. But whenever it does, just as far as we are concerned the days of
roses will be over. For the time being art and literature are dead. Look
at the rotten stuff that's being written to-day. At the beginning we
were deceived by the tinsel of war; Romance dies hard. But we know now.
We've done with fairy tales. There is nothing glorious in war, no good
can come of it. It's bloody, utterly bloody. I know it's inevitable, but
that's no excuse. So are rape, theft, murder. It's a bloody business.
Oh, Caruthers, my boy, the world will be jolly Philistine the next few
years. Commercialism will be made a god."

"Do you mean there is going to be nothing for us after the war?" said
Gordon.

"Not for you or me; for the masses, perhaps. No one can go through this
without having his senses dulled, his individuality knocked out of him.
It will take at least twenty years to recover what we have lost, and
there won't be much fire left in you and me by then. Oh, I can tell you
I am frightened of what's coming after. I can't face it. Of course there
may be a great revival some day. Do you remember what Rupert Brooke
said in _Second Best_ about there waiting for the 'great unborn some
white tremendous