Mr. Russell and his Hound were apparently listening, but they could offer no suggestions.

“Kew’s going has upset me so that my headache has returned, and I cannot get any Aspirin here,” continued Cousin Gustus.  “I know a man who was very much addicted to these neuralgic headaches, who committed suicide by throwing himself from the bathroom window, solely owing to neuralgia.  And the rain does nothing towards improving matters.  They say the German guns bring on the rain.  I tell you there is no limit to their guilt.  Look at this morning’s paper:  ’The enemy bombarded this section of our front with increasing intensity during the day....’  I ask you, is that war?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Russell absently.

“Nonsense,” said Cousin Gustus.  “What we ought to do is to shoot every German we can catch.  Shooting’s too good for them.  Hang them.  That would teach them.  Any Government but ours would have thought of it long ago.  Iron Crosses, indeed, Pish!”

Cousin Gustus finds the Iron Cross very useful for the filling up of crannies in his edifice of wrath.

Anonyma said:  “When I think of those old fairy-like German songs, I feel as if I had lost a bit of my heart and shall never find it again.  That is what I regret most about this War.  It is bad art.”

“Art, indeed,” said Cousin Gustus.  “Why, every time they steal a picture they get an Iron Cross.  I know a man who saw a German wearing a perfect rosary of Iron Crosses; the fellow was boasting of having bayoneted more babies than any other man in the regiment.  Listen to this:  ’The enemy attacked the outskirts of the village of What D’you Call’em, and engaged our troops in hand-to-hand fighting.’  Think of it, and we used to say they were a civilised race.  At the point of the bayonet, it says—­isn’t it atrocious?  ’The enemy were finally repulsed at the point of the bay—­’ oh well, of course that may be different.  I don’t pretend to be a military expert....”

“I hate the Germans,” said Anonyma, “because they have spoilt my own idea of them.  I hate having a mistake brought home to me.”

“I hate the Germans,” began Mr. Russell, “because—­”

“I’m going for a walk,” said Anonyma.  “I am sick of sitting here and hearing you two old fogies argue about the War.  If War is bad art, it is vulgar to refer to it.”

I know exactly what Mr. Russell was going to say.  He had a vague culinary metaphor in his mind.  I hate the Germans because they are underdone, they are red meat.  Their vices and their virtues and their music, and their greed and their fairyism and their militarism, all seem to have been roasted in a hurry, and to contain, like red meat, the natural juices to an extent that seems to us excessive.  The reason why some of us dislike red meat is that it reminds us too much of what our food originally was.  As we ourselves, possibly, are rather overcooked by the fire of civilisation, this vulgar deficiency in our enemy is very apparent to us.  This is an elaborate, but not a pleasing analogy, and it was fortunate that Mr. Russell was interrupted.  Otherwise, I think he might have been trying to this day to explain it to an exasperated Cousin Gustus.  He spoke of it to his Hound, and the idea interested that animal very much.