“It wouldn’t have affected what the war has made of me. I should have joined up just the same, and, just the same, I should have had a hell of a time in a perpetual blue funk which I had to hide, and should have come out minus a foot; and just the same too I should have wondered how on earth I’m going to stick the University—if I do go back—with its childish little rules and restrictions—to say nothing of its limited outlook.” “Two or three years ago,” said Baltazar, following his son’s lead, “if I heard a fellow of twenty talk about the limited outlook of the University of Cambridge, I should have said that his proper sphere was the deepest inferno of insufferable young prigs provided by another ancient seat of learning situated also on the banks of a river. As your tutor, I should have had even nastier and more sarcastic things than that to say to you. But now, in this new and incomprehensible world, I’m perfectly ready to agree with you. What is there of the conduct or meaning of life that our dear old pragmatical drake of a Crosby and his train of ducks can teach men like your friend Kinnaird and yourself? It’s like a bunch of hares sitting down before an old tortoise and being taught how to run. Isn’t that the way of it?” “I suppose it is,” replied Godfrey, laughing. “I don’t want to crab men like the master. Nothing can take away their scholarship, which, after all, is vital to human progress—and, of course, as far as that goes, I’m perfectly willing to sit at their feet—but—well—I know you see what I mean, sir. It’s very jolly of you, as one of the elder crowd, and very unusual, to be so sympathetic.” “I’ll go further than that,” said Baltazar. “As one of the elder crowd, I should like to have the benefit of your concentrated experience of modern life, and that is why I propose to tell you my story of Spendale Farm, Quong Ho, and the Zeppelin. It’s my Ancient Mariner’s tale, and you cannot choose but hear. But for the Lord’s sake tell what you can remember of it to Sister Baring, for I’m sick to death of it.” * * * * * It was nearly five o’clock when he had finished. Finding Godfrey a sensitive listener, he had expounded with many picturesque and intimate details the story which he had roughly told so often. The reason for his sudden self-condemnation to exile he had glossed over, as he had done when first he had accounted for himself to Sheepshanks. Oddly enough, no one, not even this son of his, with the quick insight forced to maturity by the hot-house of war, boggled at the reason. All accepted his maniacal proceeding as in keeping with the impulsive eccentricity of his career. Besides, the mere fact of a man being able so to eliminate from his surroundings every whisper of the outside world as to live in England and remain in absolute ignorance of the war for a couple of years, staggered credulity and eclipsed minor considerations.