Morally, he was profiting by the war. Nay, more, in a deep sense he
was enjoying it. The immensity of it, the terror of it, the idiocy
of it, the splendour of it, its unique grandeur as an illustration of
human nature, thrilled the spectator in him. He had little fear for
the result. The nations had measured themselves; the factors of the
equation were known. Britain conceivably might not win, but she could
never lose. And he did not accept the singular theory that unless she
won this war another war would necessarily follow. He had, in spite
of all, a pretty good opinion of mankind, and would not exaggerate
its capacity for lunatic madness. The worst was over when Paris was
definitely saved. Suffering would sink and die like a fire. Privations
were paid for day by day in the cash of fortitude. Taxes would always
be met. A whole generation, including himself, would rapidly vanish
and the next would stand in its place. And at worst, the path of
evolution was unchangeably appointed. A harsh, callous philosophy.
Perhaps.
What impressed him, and possibly intimidated him beyond anything else
whatever, was the onset of the next generation. He thought of Queenie,
of Mr. Dialin, of Miss I-forget-your-name, of Lieutenant Molder.
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