"The Old Order! The Willing Horse! There’s hardly an estate, or a farm, or an allotment, in this country-side, or in any part of Scotland or England, that has not changed hands, prospectively at least, during the last three years. And what with designedly disruptive death duties, and income tax on the same scale, levied on people who have no personal income—only a few precious, ancient, barren acres—the old estates are passing right away from the original owners—one half sold to pay the charges on the other half. It seems a queer way of rewarding people who have given everything—to sell them up because they have nothing more to give! Still, one has the supreme satisfaction of having played the game. Our record stands—" He broke off. "I apologise: I was sermonising! Bad habit!" He looked at his watch. "Three o’clock! I must go; a trunk call comes through from London every afternoon at four. Alan, I will give you a lift." A few minutes later I found myself rolling home in an unaccustomed motor. "I still get twenty gallons a month," explained Lord Eskerley. "Business of State, and so on. Going back soon?" "Thursday," I said. "Well, enjoy the war while you can. When it is over there will be no peace for anybody. After the Boche has given his last expiring kick we are going to sit down to a Peace Congress in comparison with which the Congress of Vienna will take rank as a model of sagacity and altruism. The Millennium that we are all composing cantatas about is not coming—yet." "Are we going to have more wars, then?" I asked, gazing rather dejectedly at the red, wintry sunset. "We are always going to have more wars," replied my companion testily—"and then more! (The final war will be between men and women. Even that won’t really settle anything, because there will be too much rendering aid and comfort to the enemy going on.) By the way, how is Roy?" I reported favourably upon my nephew’s health and service record. "I suppose you know," I remarked, "that Tom Birnie appointed yourself and myself Roy’s trustees and executors?" "Yes. Tom wrote me a letter to that effect before he enlisted." "He did enlist, then?" "I believe so." I did not press for details. Lord Eskerley has means at his disposal of discovering most of the secrets of this world—which is not to say that he is accustomed to pass these on to third parties. "Have you seen Roy," I continued, "or heard from him of late?" "I have not seen him, and he has not favoured me with a single line since he went out for the first time. By the way, I observe she received a decoration the other day—for conspicuous bravery during an air-raid." "Who?" "Who? The girl!" "The girl? You mean—the Netherby girl? Is that _affaire_ still—?" "Yes. Name of Clegg. You know what became of her, I suppose?"