“Life is the same, the world over,” another man remarked. “With every forward step in civilization, life must become more mechanical. London is no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo.” Aynesworth shook his head. “I don’t agree with you,” he replied. “It is the same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxon temperament, with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more than any other, gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here has become fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a gauge for our emotions. Lovell is going where the one great force of primitive life remains. He is going to see war. He is going to breathe an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going to rub shoulders with men who walk hand in hand with death. That’s the sort of tonic we all want, to remind us that we are human beings with blood in our veins, and not sawdust-stuffed dolls.” Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his mouth, and he addressed Aynesworth. “Walter,” he said, “you are talking rot. There is nothing very complex or stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one another unseen; where you feel the sting in your heart which comes from God knows where, and you crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at the chap who has potted you from the trenches, or behind a rock, a thousand yards off. Mine is going to be, except from a spectacular point of view, a very barren sort of year, compared with what yours might be if the fire once touched your eyes. I go where life is cruder and fiercer, perhaps, but you remain in the very city of tragedies.” Aynesworth laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette. “City of tragedies!” he exclaimed. “It sounds all right, but it’s bunkum all the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me where to stir the waters.” Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change in Lovell’s face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this last evening amongst his old friends had disappeared. His face had fallen into graver lines, his eyes seemed fixed with a curious introspective steadiness on a huge calendar which hung from the wall. When at last he turned towards Aynesworth, his tone was almost solemn. “Some of them don’t lie so very far from the surface, Walter,” he said. “There is one”--he took out his watch--“there is one which, if you like, I will tell you about. I have just ten minutes.” “Good!” “Go ahead, Lovell, old chap!” “Have a drink first!” He held out his hand. They were all silent. He stood up amongst them, by far the tallest man there, with his back to the chimney piece, and his eyes still lingering about that calendar.