how you that he must be a
bigger man than you imagine."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," cried Peggy, with a flash of the eyes.
"I hope it's true."

"The war's such a whacking big thing, you see," he said with a
conciliatory smile. "No one can prophesy exactly what's going to come
out of it. But the whole of human society ... the world, the whole of
civilization, is being stirred up like a Christmas pudding. The war's
bound to change the trend of all human thought. There must be an
entire rearrangement of social values."

"I'm sorry; but I don't see it," said Peggy.

Doggie again wrinkled his brow and looked at her, and she returned his
glance stonily.

"You think I'm mulish."

She had interpreted Doggie's thought, but he raised a hand in protest.

"No, no."

"Yes, yes. Every man looks at a woman like that when he thinks her a
mule or an idiot. We get to learn it in our cradles. But in spite of
your superior wisdom, I know I'm right. After the war there won't be a
bit of change, really. A duke will be a duke, and a costermonger a
costermonger."

"These are extreme cases. The duke may remain a duke, but he won't be
such a little tin god on wheels. He'll find himself in the position of
a democratic country gentleman. And the costermonger will rise to the
political position of an important tradesman. But between the two
there'll be any old sort of flux."

"Did you learn all this horrible, rank socialism in France?"

"Perhaps, but it seems so obvious."

"It's only because you've been living among Tommies, who've got these
stupid ideas into their heads. If you had been living among your
social equals----"

"In Durdlebury?"

She flashed rebellion. "Yes. In Durdlebury. Why not?"

"I'm afraid, Peggy dear," he said, with his patient, pleasant smile,
"you are rather sheltered from the war in Durdlebury."

She cried out indignantly.

"Indeed we're not. The newspapers come to Durdlebury, don't they? And
everybody's doing something. We have the war all around us. We've even
succeeded in getting wounded soldiers in the Cottage Hospital. Nancy
Murdoch is a V.A.D. and scrubs floors. Cissy James is driving a
Y.M.C.A. motor-car in Calais. Jane Brown-Gore is nursing in Salonika.
We read all their letters. Personally, I can't do much, because mother
has crocked up and I've got to run the Deanery. But I'm slaving from
morning to night. Only last week I got up a concert for the wounded.
Alone I did it--and it takes som