grieved. He--or she, or whatever it
was that was trying to talk to her, appeared concerned about Reason and
Pity and Universal Brotherhood and Civilization's clock--things like
that. But the little impish drummer was making such a din, she couldn't
properly hear. Later on, perhaps, he would get tired; and then she would
be able to listen to this humane and sensible person, whoever it might
be.

Mary argued that England could and should keep out of it; but Greyson was
convinced it would be impossible, not to say dishonourable: a sentiment
that won the enthusiastic approval of the little drummer in Joan's brain.
He played "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King," the "Marseillaise"
and the Russian National hymn, all at the same time. He would have
included "Deutschland uber Alles," if Joan hadn't made a supreme effort
and stopped him. Evidently a sporting little devil. He took himself off
into a corner after a time, where he played quietly to himself; and Joan
was able to join in the conversation.

Greyson spoke with an enthusiasm that was unusual to him. So many of our
wars had been mean wars--wars for the wrong; sordid wars for territory,
for gold mines; wars against the weak at the bidding of our traders, our
financiers. "Shouldering the white man's burden," we called it. Wars
for the right of selling opium; wars to perpetuate the vile rule of the
Turk because it happened to serve our commercial interests. This time,
we were out to play the knight; to save the smaller peoples; to rescue
our once "sweet enemy," fair France. Russia was the disturbing thought.
It somewhat discounted the knight-errant idea, riding stirrup to stirrup
beside that barbarian horseman. But there were possibilities about
Russia. Idealism lay hid within that sleeping brain. It would be a holy
war for the Kingdom of the Peoples. With Germany freed from the monster
of blood and iron that was crushing out her soul, with Russia awakened to
life, we would build the United States of Europe. Even his voice was
changed. Joan could almost fancy it was some excited schoolboy that was
talking.

Mary had been clasping and unclasping her hands, a habit of hers when
troubled. Could good ever come out of evil? That was her doubt. Did
war ever do anything but sow the seeds of future violence; substitute one
injustice for another; change wrong for wrong. Did it ever do anything
but add to the world's sum of evil, making God's task the heavi