“I, for one, would fain join in the cadence of hammer strokes that should beat swords into plowshares; and that this cannot be, is not the fault of us men. It is _your_ fault. Wholly yours. Only by your command, or by your permission, can any contest take place among us. And the real, final reason for all the poverty, misery, and rage of battle, throughout Europe, is simply that you women ... are too selfish and too thoughtless to take pains for any creature out of your own immediate circles.... Now I tell you this, that if the usual course of war, instead of unroofing peasants’ houses, and ravaging peasants’ fields, merely broke the china upon your own drawing-room tables, no war in civilized countries would last a week....” “I don’t consider Germany a civilized country,” I volunteered. “Did Ruskin really write that?” I asked, and reached for the book. “I hope it’s translated into their language,” I supplemented. “They wouldn’t read it; they don’t need any advice about guarding the looted bric-à-brac on their tables,” she said. “Be thankful that our returning men can hold their heads proudly erect,” I exulted. “‘Our returning men’,” she repeated. We were walking toward the house. “When do you expect Jeffrey and Wallace home? Is Daphne’s husband back?” I asked. She held the little volume in both hands and looked evenly at me: “Jeffrey was killed at Mons during the first month of the war. Wallace was refused several times on account of his eyes. ‘What would you do if your glasses were broken?’ they asked him the last time he applied. He went out and bought six pairs, and they accepted him. He never needed a second pair,” said my friend in her quiet, emotionless voice. I laid my hand on her arm. “My dear--” I cried, and could go no further. She turned her head away. * * * * * From behind us came Daphne’s voice singing an old song of laughter and love and a garden of roses. She joined us and looked puzzledly at her mother. “What is it?” she questioned. “We’ve been speaking of your brothers,” I whispered. She started at me. “Brothers?” she asked. I glanced at her with astonishment. “Jeffrey and Wallace, who were with you at Hong-Kong,” I said. “Jeffrey--Wallace--Hong-Kong,” she repeated parrot-like after me, in vague and troubled bewilderment, then brightened: “Were you at my wedding? We had flowers and flags!” I could only stare at her. Her mother motioned me into the wide hall. “Daphne and her husband were spending his leave, and their honeymoon, in London; they were just coming out of a theatre when a German air raid started. George was killed ... and Daphne struck on the head ... by some falling masonry. For days we thought we couldn’t pull her through--then the up-turn came.” “Oh!” I exclaimed. “_Oh!_”