win."

"Are we in theology now, or still in biology?" asked Irechester,
rather acidly.

"You're getting out of my 'depth anyhow," smiled Mrs. Naylor. "And I'm
sure the girls must be bewildered."

"Mamma, I've done biology!"

"And many people think they've done theology!" chuckled Naylor. "Done it
completely!"

"I've raised a pretty argument!" said Beaumaroy, smiling. "I'm sorry! I
only meant to answer your question about the effect the whole thing has
had on myself."

"Even your answer to that was pretty startling, Mr. Beaumaroy," said
Doctor Mary, smiling too. "You gave us to understand that it had
obliterated for you all distinctions of right and wrong, didn't you?"

"Did I go as far as that?" he laughed. "Then I'm open to the remark that
they can't have been very strong at first."

"Now don't destroy the general interest of your thesis," Naylor implored.
"It's quite likely that yours is a case as common as Alec's, or even
commoner. 'A brutal and licentious soldiery,' isn't that a classic phrase
in our histories? All the same, I fancy Mr. Beaumaroy does himself less
than justice." He laughed. "We shall be able to judge of that when we
know him better."

"At all events, Miss Gertie, look out that I don't fake the score at
tennis!" said Beaumaroy.

"A man might be capable of murder, but not capable of that," said Alec.

"A truly British sentiment!" cried his father. "Tom, we have got back to
the national ideals."

The discussion ended in laughter, and the talk turned to lighter matters;
but, as Mary Arkroyd drove Cynthia home across the heath, her thoughts
returned to it. The two men, the two soldiers, seemed to have given an
authentic account of what their experience had done to them. Both, as she
saw the case, had been moved to pity, horror, and indignation that such
things should be done, or should have to be done, in the world. After
that point came the divergence. The higher nature had been raised, the
lower debased; Alec Naylor's sympathies had been sharpened and
sensitized; Beaumaroy's blunted. Where the one had found ideals and
incentives, the other found despair--a despair that issued in excuses and
denied high standards. And the finer mind belonged to the finer soldier;
that she knew, for Gertie had told her General Punnit's story, and,
however much she might discount it as the tale of an elderly martinet,
yet it stood for something, for something that could never be attributed
to Alec Naylor.