Some new element had entered into the voice. Whether it was herself or whether it was Simec, Evelyn was in no mood to determine.... She was aware only of a certain metallic cadence which beat cruelly upon her nerves. Silence had followed, but not of the same sort as before. As though seeking complete withdrawal, Evelyn turned her eyes out of the window. A wayfarer, head down, was struggling through the nimbus of watery electric light; a horse-drawn vehicle was plodding by. Colcord's voice brought her back; it was strained. "I don't feel as Allison does," he said. "And I certainly have no sympathy with Simec." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "You see," he went on, "I--I--well, maybe, I'm a product of extended peace, as Simec puts it. No doubt I'm soft. But this war--I've never talked nor let myself think much about the war--but this whole thing of sacrifice got under me from the very first.... Young men, thousands, hundreds of thousands of them, yes, millions, torn from their homes, from their mothers, their fathers--their wives, for what? To be blown into shapeless, unrecognizable clay, to be maimed, made useless for life. My God! It has kept me awake nights!" "Colcord"--Simec's white eyes rested professionally upon the host--"let us get to the root of your state of mind; your brief is for the individual as against the common good, is it not?" Colcord frowned. "Oh, I haven't any brief, Simec; I've never reasoned about the thing, that is, in a cold, scientific way. It's a matter of heart, I suppose--of instinct. I just can't seem to stand the calculating, sordid wastage of young life and all that it involves. Now, of course, it has come closer home. And it's terrible." "You never would shoot anything for sport, would you, old fellow?" said Latham, sympathetically, "not even pheasants." Colcord tossed his beautifully modelled head. "Latham, I tell you, I'm soft; I'm the ultimate product of peace and civilization." "Yes, you're soft, terribly so," smiled Dane. "I ought to know; I played opposite you at tackle for two years." "Stuff! You understand what I mean, Jerry; I guess you all do. I've never talked this way before; as I say, I've always kept the war in the background, tried to gloss it over, forget it. But I couldn't; I've done a heap of thinking." He sat bolt upright, his clinched fist upon the table. "All these young chaps herded together and suddenly turned loose from all they've known and done and thought--I tell you I can't duck it any more." "I know, old chap." Arnold Bates, who wrote light society novels, spoke soothingly. "It is--rotten. But what are you going to do about it?" Colcord's fine brow was wrinkled painfully. "Nothing, Arnold, nothing. That's the trouble; you have to sit still and watch this wrecking of civilization or else get out and take a hack at the thing yourself. I can't do that; not unless I have to." He paused. "I've had a good time in this life; things have always come easily--"