uch, and I expect I shall
be damned scared when it comes to ... to charging and that sort of thing
... but a chap must do his share...."

"I suppose so," Henry said again.

It seemed to him to be utterly absurd that Gilbert should become a
soldier, that his sensitive mind should be diverted from its proper
functions to the bloody business of war.

"I've always jibbed a bit when I heard people talking about England in
the way that awful stockbroker in the hotel talks about it," Gilbert was
saying, "and I loathe the Kipling flag-flapper, all bounce and brag and
bloodies ... but I feel fond of England to-day, Quinny, and nothing else
seems to matter much. And anyhow fighting's such a filthy job that it
ought to be shared by everybody that can take a hand in it at all. It
doesn't seem right somehow to do your fighting by proxy. I should hate
to think that I let some one else save my skin when I'm perfectly able
to save it myself...."

"But you've other work to do, Gilbert, more important work than that.
There are plenty of people to do that job, but there aren't many people
to do yours. Supposing you went out and ... and got ... killed?..."

"There's that risk, of course," said Gilbert, "but after all, I don't
know that my life is of greater value than another man's. A clerk's life
is of as much consequence to him as mine is to me."

"I daresay it is, Gilbert, but is it of as much consequence to England?
I know it sounds priggish to say that, but some lives are of more value
than others, and it's silly to pretend that they're not."

"I should have agreed with you about that last week, Quinny. You
remember my doctrine of aristocracy?... Well, somehow I don't feel like
that now. I just don't feel like it. Those chaps we saw at Holyhead,
going off to France ... I shouldn't like to put my plays against the
life of any one of them. I couldn't help thinking last night, while I
was lying in bed, that there I was, snugly tucked up, and out there ...
somewhere!..." He pointed out towards the Irish Sea ... "those chaps
were sailing to ... to fight for me. I felt ashamed of myself, and I
don't like to feel ashamed of myself. You saw that soldier giving his
wife's address to Perkins? Poor devil, he hadn't had time to say
'Good-bye' to her, and perhaps he won't come back. I should feel like a
cad if I let myself believe that my plays were worth more than that
man's life. And anyhow, if I don't write the plays, some one else will.