“Suicide’s the last act of a coward,” decided Patricia. “Or an altruist,” interrupted Francis. “What the devil’s an altruist?” asked Peter. “An altruist”—Patricia rose from the tea-table—“is a woman who leaves a nice comfortable fire to see that Elizabeth doesn’t drown Evelyn and Primula in their baths.” But she went upstairs heavy-hearted; found no joy in the laughter of her children, in their bath-games, their quaint prayers, their snuggling “good-nights.” . . . § 4 Francis stayed for dinner; stayed endlessly. After coffee, he and Peter drew sofa to the fireplace in the hall; began to discuss the war. Patricia, making pretence of reading the newspapers, watched them covertly from her armchair. Both the cousins were in day-clothes: Peter still wore breeches and gaiters, his rough homespun shooting-coat; Francis, a loose gray-green suit of Lovat tweed. Her own black evening dress, high-throated, lawn at wrist, seemed to isolate her from their bodies, as thought isolated her from their conversation. They talked quietly, but with the bitter unreasoned conviction of the fighting-man. Patricia could never accustom herself to that bitterness. In their eyes, only the fighting-man existed: they could not see the non-combatant. To them, non-combatants were traitors, shirkers, conscientious objectors, self-advertisers, money-grubbers; always ready to betray the fighting-man, to cheat him and rob him, to preach to him first and leave him in the lurch afterwards. “Patriotism!” sneered Peter. “Why, the Boches are ten times more patriotic than we are. There aren’t any conscientious objectors in Germany.” Francis sneered back, “Never mind, old boy. We shall never sheathe the sword till every munition-worker has got his own motor-car.” “Don’t you believe it, Francis. Our damned politicians would sheathe the sword tomorrow if they saw the chance. Take it from me, they’ll do us in the eye before it’s over.” Patricia flung down her newspapers. “You’re perfectly impossible, both of you. Can’t you see anything good in England? Isn’t everybody working? . . .” “Isn’t everybody getting paid for it?”—Peter’s eyes darkled. “Who’s paid worst? The front-line infantryman, of course. That’s war all over. The more dangerous the job, the less the pay. And if it wasn’t for the infantryman, you’d have had the Huns in England. . . .” “No, we shouldn’t,” interrupted Francis. “The Navy’s still at sea, isn’t it?” “It is,” crowed Peter. “And that’s the worst paid service of the lot.” She picked up her paper. It was useless to argue with them; they must talk themselves out. And again the thought of madness overwhelmed Patricia. The whole scene—the two lounging men, the cosy lamp-lit room—became unreal. She was in a lunatic asylum. Peter and Francis were both dead: their minds, the minds she had once known so well, existed no longer: two ghosts, two utter strangers, occupied these bodies. Two mad ghosts of minds she had known!