“My dear young man,” said the heads of prosperous businesses who had been out to “beat the Boche,” even though they sacrificed their only sons, or all their sons (with heroic courage!). “You have been wasting your time. You have no qualifications whatever for a junior clerkship in this office. On the contrary, you have probably contracted habits of idleness and inaccuracy which would cause a lot of trouble. This vacancy is being filled by a lad who has not been vitiated by military life, and has nothing to unlearn. Good morning!” And the young officers, after a statement like that, went home with swear-words learnt in Flanders, and said, “That’s the reward of patriotism, eh? Well, we seem to have been fooled, pretty badly. Next time we shan’t be so keen to strew the fields of death with our fresh little corpses.” These words, all this murmur from below, did not reach those who sat in High Places. They were wonderfully complacent, except when outbreaks of violence, or the cessation of labour, shocked them with a sense of danger. They arranged Peace celebrations before the Peace, Victory marches when the fruits of Victory were as bitter as Dead Sea fruit in the mouths of those who saw the ruin of the world; and round a Council Table in Paris statesmen of Europe abandoned all the ideals for which the war had been fought by humble men, and killed the hopes of all those who had looked to them as the founders of a new era of humanity and commonsense. II It was when the Peace Treaty had been signed but not ratified by the representatives of Germany and Austria that I met some of the friends with whom I had travelled along many roads of war or had met in scenes which already seemed far back in history. In London, after a journey to America, I came again in touch with young Harding, whom I had seen last on his way home to his pretty wife, who had fretted at his long absence, and Charles Fortune, whose sense of humour had made me laugh so often in the time of tragedy. Those were chance meetings in the eddies of the great whirlpool of London life, as I saw other faces, strange for a moment or two, until the difference between a field-cap and a bowler hat, a uniform and civil clothes, was wiped out by a look of recognition, and the sound of a remembered voice. Not by chance but by a friendship which had followed me across the world with written words, I found myself once more in the company of Wickham Brand, and with him went again to spend some evenings with Eileen O’Connor, who was now home in Kensington, after that grim drama which she had played so long in Lille. With “Daddy” Small I had been linked up by a lucky chain of coincidences which had taken us both to New York at the same time and brought us back to Europe on the same boat, which was the White Star liner _Lapland_.