"Three times this year," said Raeburn, "we have missed victories because of the badness of our staff work. It's no good picking out scapegoats. It's a question of national habit. It's because the sort of man we turn out from our public schools has never learnt how to catch trains, get to an office on the minute, pack a knapsack properly, or do anything smartly and quickly--anything whatever that he can possibly get done for him. You can't expect men who are habitually easy-going to keep bucked up to a high pitch of efficiency for any length of time. All their training is against it. All their tradition. They hate being prigs. An Englishman will be any sort of stupid failure rather than appear a prig. That's why we've lost three good fights that we ought to have won--and thousands and thousands of men--and material and time, precious beyond reckoning. We've lost a year. We've dashed the spirit of our people." "My boy in Flanders," said Mr. Britling, "says about the same thing. He says our officers have never learnt to count beyond ten, and that they are scared at the sight of a map...." "And the war goes on," said the little woman. "How long, oh Lord! how long?" cried Mr. Britling. "I'd give them another year," said the staff officer. "Just going as we are going. Then something _must_ give way. There will be no money anywhere. There'll be no more men.... I suppose they'll feel that shortage first anyhow. Russia alone has over twenty millions." "That's about the size of it," said Raeburn.... "Do you think, sir, there'll be civil war?" asked the young staff officer abruptly after a pause. There was a little interval before any one answered this surprising question. "After the peace, I mean," said the young officer. "There'll be just the devil to pay," said Raeburn. "One thing after another in the country is being pulled up by its roots," reflected Mr. Britling. "We've never produced a plan for the war, and it isn't likely we shall have one for the peace," said Raeburn, and added: "and Lady Frensham's little lot will be doing their level best to sit on the safety-valve.... They'll rake up Ireland and Ulster from the very start. But I doubt if Ulster will save 'em." "We shall squabble. What else do we ever do?" No one seemed able to see more than that. A silence fell on the little party. "Well, thank heaven for these dahlias," said Raeburn, affecting the philosopher. The young staff officer regarded the dahlias without enthusiasm.... Section 16 Mr. Britling sat one September afternoon with Captain Lawrence Carmine in the sunshine of the barn court, and smoked with him and sometimes talked and sometimes sat still.