How? By British pluck and British enterprise. Pluck, by God! were we not showing it now on the Somme? And enterprise? He poured out more Bollinger. If the fool Government would let business men do business things in a business way, we would get the Germans beaten and fawning for peace in a fortnight. There was nothing wrong with England. He was English, through and through. “Although I won’t deny,” said he, with an incipient hiccough, “that my mother spoke Yiddish. No, no my dear”—he turned with a protesting wave to his wife—“I want to make things perfectly clear and above board to our old friend Baltazar. I’ve got a coat-of-arms—look up Pillivant in any book on Heraldry and you’ll see it—that goes back to Edward the Something—not the Seventh. I’m English, I tell you. But I’m not responsible for my mother, who came from Posen. Now, what do you do to prevent typhoid? You inoculate. I’m inoculated. That’s my fortunate position. I’m inoculated against Prussianism and all it stands for. Could I be a pacifist or a conscientious objector? No. I’m immune from the disease of pro-Germanism. As I’ve been telling you, I’m English through and through, and I’m spending my life and my fortune in seeing that Old England comes out on top.” To prove the expenditure of fortune he seized a fresh bottle of Bollinger which the butler had just opened and filled Baltazar’s glass and his own. “If you don’t drink, you’re a pro-German. To hell with the Kaiser.” Baltazar drank the toast politely and patriotically; the merest sip of champagne; for beyond the first brandy and soda which had been poured down his parched and exhausted throat, he had kept his vow of abstinence, in spite of his host’s continued pressure. He felt sure of himself now; wondered how he could ever have brought himself to the present Pillivant condition. He liked Pillivant less than ever; yet he began to be fascinated by the truth concerning Pillivant which rose unashamed to the surface of the wine-cup. When the cigars were put on the table, Mrs. Pillivant rose. Baltazar opened the door for her to pass out. On the first occasion of his doing so, the first time he had come down to dinner, she had been puzzled, and asked him whether he was not going to smoke with her husband. She still did not seem to understand the conventional courtesy. When the door was closed behind her, Pillivant drew a great breath of relief. “Pity you won’t drink,” said he, refilling his glass. “We might have made a night of it. And this is such good stuff, too. About the most expensive I could buy.” After that, impelled by the craving for self-revelation, he took up his parable again, and entertained his guest with many details of opinions, habits and actions, that had not been fit for wifely ears. When the stream of confidence at last grew maudlin, Baltazar, pleading an invalid’s fatigue after a heavy day, bade him good night.