“How?  Why?” enquired Bobby.  Possibly he was interested in Wagstaffe’s unusual expansiveness:  possibly he hoped to steer the conversation away from the topic of V.A.D.’s—­possibly towards it.  You never know.

“Well,” said Wagstaffe, “we are all going to understand one another a great deal better after this war.”

“Who?  Labour and Capital, and so on?”

“‘Labour and Capital’ is a meaningless and misleading expression, Bobby.  For instance, our men regard people like you and me as Capitalists; the ordinary Brigade Major regards us as Labourers, and pretty common Labourers at that.  It is all a question of degree.  But what I mean is this.  You can’t call your employer a tyrant and an extortioner after he has shared his rations with you and never spared himself over your welfare and comfort through weary months of trench-warfare; neither, when you have experienced a working-man’s courage and cheerfulness and reliability in the day of battle, can you turn round and call him a loafer and an agitator in time of peace—­can you?  That is just what the Bandar-log overlook, when they jabber about the dreadful industrial upheaval that is coming with peace.  Most of all have they overlooked the fact that with the coming of peace this country will be invaded by several million of the wisest men that she has ever produced—­the New British Army.  That Army will consist of men who have spent three years in getting rid of mutual misapprehensions and assimilating one another’s point of view—­men who went out to the war ignorant and intolerant and insular, and are coming back wise to all the things that really matter.  They will flood this old country, and they will make short work of the agitator, and the alarmist, and the profiteer, and all the nasty creatures that merely make a noise instead of doing something, and who crab the work of the Army and Navy—­more especially the Navy—­because there isn’t a circus victory of some kind in the paper every morning.  Yes, Bobby, when our boys get back, and begin to ask the Bandar-log what they did in the Great War—­well, it’s going to be a rotten season for Bandar-log generally!”

There was silence again.  Presently Bobby spoke:—­

“When our boys get back!  Some of them are never coming back again, worse luck!”

“Still,” said Wagstaffe, “what they did was worth doing, and what they died for was worth while.  I think their one regret to-day would be that they did not live to see their own fellows taking the offensive—­the line going forward on the Somme; the old tanks waddling over the Boche trenches; and the Boche prisoners throwing up their hands and yowling ‘Kamerad’!  And the Kut unpleasantness cleaned up, and all the kinks in the old Salient straightened out!  And Wytchaete and Messines!  You remember how the two ridges used to look down into our lines at Wipers and Plugstreet?  And now we’re on top of both of them!  Some of our friends out there—­the friends who are not coming back—­would have liked to know about that, Bobby.  I wish they could, somehow.”