"You're looking pretty rotten, Derek," he said, looking at Vane critically. "I've been dining next a woman with a mission," he answered. "And I was nearly drowned in the 'Connaught.'" The lawyer looked at him keenly. "And the two combined have finished you off." "Oh! no. I'm reserving my final effort for the third. I'll get that at the Mainwarings'." He lifted his glass and let the ruby light glint through his port. "Why do we struggle, Jimmy? Why, in Heaven's name, does anybody ever do anything but drift? Look at that damned foolishness over the water. . . . The most titanic struggle of the world. And look at the result. . . . Anarchy, rebellion, strife. What's the use; tell me that, my friend, what's the use? And the little struggles--the personal human struggles--are just as futile. . . ." The lawyer thoughtfully lit a cigarette. "It's not only you fellows out there, Derek," he said, "who are feeling that way. We're all of us on the jump, and we're all of us bottling it up. The result is a trial such as we had the other day, with witnesses and judge screaming at each other, and dignity trampled in the mud. Every soul in England read the case--generally twice--before anything else. You could see 'em all in the train--coming up to business--with the sheet on which it was reported carefully taken out of its proper place and put in the centre of the paper so that they could pretend they were reading the war news." Vane laughed. "We were better than that. We took it, naked and unashamed, in order of seniority. And no one was allowed to read any tit-bit out loud for fear of spoiling it for the next man." Jimmy Charters laughed shortly. "We're just nervy, and sensationalism helps. It takes one out of one's self for a moment; one forgets." "And the result is mud flung at someone, some class. No matter whether it's true; no matter whether it's advisable--it's mud. And it sticks alike to the just and the unjust; while the world looks on and sneers; and over the water, the men look on and--die." George Smallwood was pushing back his chair. "Come on, you fellows. The Cuthberts will advance from their funk-holes." . . . He led the way towards the door, and Vane rose. "Don't pay any attention to what I've been saying, Jimmy." The lawyer was strolling beside him. "It's liver; I'll take a dose of salts in the morning." Jimmy Charters looked at him in silence for a moment. "I don't know what the particular worry is at the moment, old man," he said at length, "but don't let go. I'm no sky pilot, but I guess that somewhere up topsides there's a Big Controller Who understands. . . . Only at times the pattern is a bit hard to follow. . . ." Vane laughed hardly. "It's likely to be when the fret-saw slips."