But there were moments when it was difficult so conveniently to restrict the vision of the future. Rumours of war were continual reminders of war’s imminence, and, therefore, pointers towards the years of undefined purpose that would succeed it. As each rumour was proved false, it was impossible, in the days of reaction, to avoid some speculation as to the results which would have ensued had the rumour been well-founded; just as it is impossible for a man who has survived an attack of that disease by which he knows his end must come not to look a little wistfully beyond the gates of death. And soon after that night on which John had, for other reasons, asked himself to what end his present life was directed, there came whisperings of war to make the question more insistent. Once again the rumour was seen to lack foundation; a leaf in the great technical volume was turned excitedly; but not yet had that page been reached upon which was written CHAPTER THE LAST. But John knew, as did they all, that they were near the end now--very near the end. “I hope it comes,” he said to Hartington, “before we leave China. Out here it will be on a smaller scale. We shall be able to see the whole battle at once, and it will be _our_ battle. It will be simpler, more clearly cut than that vast affair in the North Sea.” “Do you look forward to war?” “What else is there to which we can look forward? It’s our training. It’s what we are here for.” “It means untold suffering--mourning, poverty, bitterness for years to come.” “That may be,” said John, “but it’s our job.” “You are a queer fellow--an idealist one moment and a shouting militarist the next.” “No, I’m not a militarist, though I do say I want war. I shouldn’t want war if there was anything else on God’s earth that I could want with a reasonable hope of obtaining it. I should take no pleasure in war itself apart from the momentary excitement of the thing; and certainly I’m not dreaming of political gains through war, which is the part of the genuine militarist. I want it just as one wants a thunderstorm to break quickly that one knows must break some time. I’m sick of the tension, of wasting precious years in preparing and waiting. If the end of all our work is to be ‘mourning, poverty, and bitterness for years to come,’ if that’s what we are living for, I want an end of it. I don’t know what is beyond. I don’t care. But, at any rate, it will be a clean sheet--a clean sheet to spoil may be, but a chance to make a fresh start.” “A chance for you to make a fresh start?” “I mean--I mean the world in general.” “But you?” “Oh, I’m a naval officer for good and all. It’s different for me.” “Our trade’s going to be an odd one after the war. It may become more or less superfluous. There may be a great pensioning-off.” “I’ve thought about that--‘after the war.’ But I dare say there’ll be work for us to do.”