“I’ve been thinking a good deal lately about this war,” Michael declared. “I’m beginning to doubt whether it’s a just war, whether we didn’t simply set out on it for brag and money. I’m not sure that I want to see the Boers conquered. They’re a small independent nation, and they have old-fashioned ideas and they’re narrow-minded Bible-worshippers, but there’s something noble about them, something much nobler than there is in these rotten adventurers who go out to fight them. Of course, I don’t mean by that people like Captain Ross or Lord Saxby. They’re gentlemen. They go either because it’s their duty or because they think it’s their duty. And they’re the ones that get killed. You don’t hear of these swaggerers in khaki being killed. I haven’t heard yet of many of them even going to the front at all. Oh, mother, I am fed up with the rotten core of everything that looks so fine on the outside.” Mrs. Fane was now crying loud enough to make Michael stop in sudden embarrassment. “I say, mother, don’t cry. I expect I’ve been talking nonsense,” he softly told her. “I don’t know where you get these views. I was always so proud of you. I thought you were charming and mysterious, and you’re simply vulgar!” “Vulgar?” echoed Michael in dismay. Mrs. Fane nodded vehemently. “Oh, well, if I’m vulgar, I’ll go.” Michael hurried to the door. “Where are you going?” asked his mother in alarm. “Oh, Lord, only to school. That’s what makes a scene like this so funny. After I’ve worked myself up and made you angry——” “Not angry, dear. Only grieved,” interrupted his mother. “You were more than grieved when you said I was vulgar. At least I hope you were. But, after it’s all over, I go trotting off like a good little boy to school—to school—to school. Oh, mother, what is the good of expecting me to believe in the finest fellows in the world being killed, while I’m still at school? What’s the good of making me more wretched, more discontented, more alive to my own futile existence by asking me now, when he’s going away, to make friends with Lord Saxby? Oh, darling mother, can’t you realize that I’m no longer a little boy who wants to clap his hands at the sight of a red coat? Let me kiss you, mother, I’m sorry I was vulgar, but I’ve minded so dreadfully about Captain Ross, and it’s all for nothing.” Mrs. Fane let herself be petted by her son, but she did not again ask Michael to see Lord Saxby before he went away to the war.