"You mean making them get your sense of proportion?" "In some cases there can be only one," said Vane gravely. "And that one is your own. These--German prisoners you said, didn't you?--these German prisoners may think it their duty to disagree with your views. Doubtless from patriotic motives. . . ." "That would be a great pity," said Vane. "It would then be up to me to make them see the error of their ways." "And if you fail?" asked the girl. "Somehow I don't think I shall," he answered slowly. "But if I do--the trouble of which I spoke will not diminish. It will increase. . . ." "We pander too much to these swine," grumbled Mr. Sutton. "It makes me sick when I hear of the way our boys are treated by the brutes. A damn good flogging twice a day--you'll pardon my language, is what they want." "Yes--drastic measures can be quite successful at times," said Vane, with a slight smile. "Unfortunately in our present advanced state of civilisation public opinion is against flogging. It prefers violence against the person to be done mentally rather than physically. . . . And it seems so short-sighted, doesn't it? The latter is transitory, while the other is permanent. . . ." Joan rose and looked at him quietly. "How delightful to meet a man who regards anything as permanent these days. I should have thought we were living in an age of ever-changing values. . . ." "You're quite wrong, Miss Devereux," said Vane. "Quite, quite wrong. The little things may change--the froth on the top of the pool, which everyone sees and knows about; but the big fundamental things are always the same. . . ." "And what are your big fundamental things?" she demanded. Vane looked at her for a few moments before he answered her lightly. "Things on which there can be no disagreement even though they are my own views. Love and the pleasure of congenial work, and health. . . . Just think of having to live permanently with anybody whose digestion has gone. . . ." "May you never _have_ to do it," said the girl quietly. Then she turned and walked towards the door. "I suppose it's about time to dress, isn't it?" She went out of the room and Mr. Sutton advanced on Vane, with his hand upraised, like the villain of a melodrama when on the point of revealing a secret, unaware of the comic relief ensconced in the hollow tree. "My dear fellow," he whispered hoarsely. "You've said the wrong thing." He peered round earnestly at the door, to make sure Joan had not returned. "Baxter--the man she's going to marry--is a perfect martyr to indigestion. It is the one thorn in the rose. A most suitable match in every other way, but he lives"--and the old gentleman tapped Vane on the shoulder to emphasise this hideous thing--"he lives on rusks and soda-water."