een Queenie and Concepcion was absurd. He had had to
defend himself to Concepcion. And had he not defended himself?

True, he had begun perhaps too slowly to work for the war; however,
he had begun. What else could he have done beyond what he had done?
Become a special constable? Grotesque. He simply could not see himself
as a special constable, and if the country could not employ him more
usefully than in standing on guard over an electricity works or a
railway bridge in the middle of the night, the country deserved to
lose his services. Become a volunteer? Even more grotesque. Was he, a
man turned fifty, to dress up and fall flat on the ground at the
word of some fantastic jackanapes, or stare into vacancy while some
inspecting general examined his person as though it were a tailor's
mannikin? He had tried several times to get into a Government
department which would utilise his brains, but without success. And
the club hummed with the unimaginable stories related by disappointed
and dignified middle-aged men whose too eager patriotism had been
rendered ridiculous by the vicious foolery of Government departments.
No! He had some work to do and he was doing it. People were looking
to him for decision, for sagacity, for initiative; he supplied these
things. His work might grow even beyond his expectations; but if it
did not he should not worry. He felt that, unfatigued, he could and
would contribute to the mass of the national resolution in the latter
and more racking half of the war.

Morally, he was profiting by the war. Nay, more, in a deep sense he
was enjoying it. The immensity of it, the terror of it, the idiocy
of it, the splendour of it, its unique grandeur as an illustration of
human nature, thrilled the spectator in him. He had little fear for
the result. The nations had measured themselves; the factors of the
equation were known. Britain conceivably might not win, but she could
never lose. And he did not accept the singular theory that unless she
won this war another war would necessarily follow. He had, in spite
of all, a pretty good opinion of mankind, and would not exaggerate
its capacity for lunatic madness. The worst was over when Paris was
definitely saved. Suffering would sink and die like a fire. Privations
were paid for day by day in the cash of fortitude. Taxes would always
be met. A whole generation, including himself, would rapidly vanish
and the next would stand in its place. And at worst, the p