“Not,” returned Mr. Lavender, “by physical weight and force shall we win this war, for it is at bottom a question of morale. Right is, ever victorious in the end, and though we have infinitely greater material resources than our foes, we should still triumph were we reduced to the last ounce, because of the inherent nobility of our cause.” “You'll be reduced to the last ounce if we don't feed, you up somehow,” said the young lady. “Would you like to wash your hands?” Mr. Lavender having signified his assent, she left him alone in a place covered with linoleum. When, at length, followed by Blink, he emerged from dreamy ablutions, Mr. Lavender, saw that she had changed her dress to a flowing blue garment of diaphanous character, which made her appear, like an emanation of the sky. He was about to say so when he noticed a gentleman in khaki scrutinizing him with lively eyes slightly injected with blood. “Don Pickwixote,” said the young lady; “my father, Major Scarlet.” Mr. Lavender's hand was grasped by one which seemed to him made of iron. “I am honoured, sir,” he said painfully, “to meet the father of my charming young neighbour.” The Major answered in a voice as clipped as his grey bottle-brush moustache, “Delighted! Dinner's ready. Come along!” Mr. Lavender saw that he had a mouth which seemed to have a bitt in it; several hairs on a finely rounded head; and an air of efficient and truculent bonhomie tanned and wrinkled by the weather. The table at which they became seated seemed to one accustomed to frugality to groan with flowers and china and glass; and Mr. Lavender had hardly supped his rich and steaming soup before his fancy took fire; nor did he notice that he was drinking from a green glass in which was a yellow fluid. “I get Army rations,” said the Major, holding a morsel of fillet of beef towards Blink. “Nice dog, Mr. Lavender.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Lavender, ever delighted that his favourite should receive attention, “she is an angel.” “Too light,” said the Major, “and a bit too narrow in front; but a nice dog. What's your view of the war?” Before Mr. Lavender could reply he felt Aurora's foot pressing his, and heard her say: “Don Pickwixote's views are after your own heart, Dad; he's for the complete destruction of the Hun.” “Indeed, yes,” cried Mr. Lavender with shining eyes. “Right and justice demand it. We seek to gain nothing!” “But we'll take all we can get,” said the Major. “They'll never get their Colonies back. We'll stick to them fast enough.” Mr. Lavender stared at him for a moment, then, remembering what he had so often read, he murmured: “Aggrandizement is not our object; but we can never forget that so long as any territory remains in the hands of our treacherous foe the arteries of our far-flung Empire are menaced at the roots.” “Right-o,” said the Major, “we've got the chance of our lives, and we're going to take it.”