They were discussing the war.  The afternoon’s reports had been somewhat more ghastly than usual.

“The twentieth century obviously doesn’t propose to be outdone by any other period of history, recorded or unrecorded.”  One hand in his pocket, an elbow on the mantel-shelf, Selwyn looked at David Guard.  “In the quarter of a million years in which man, or what we term man, has presumably lived on this particular planet, nothing so far has been discovered, I believe, which tells of such abominations as are taking place to-day.  It’s an interesting epoch from the standpoint of man’s advance in scientific barbarism.”

“It deepens, certainly, our respect for our primeval ancestors.”  David Guard smiled grimly.  “I understand there are still tree-dwellers in certain parts of Australia who knock one another in the head when it so pleases them to do.  For the settlement of difficulties their methods require much less effort and trouble than ours.  On the whole, I prefer their manner of fighting.  Each side can see what the other’s about.”

“So do I.”  Curled up in the corner of the sofa, I had not intended to speak.  A woman’s opinions on war don’t interest men.  “The fundamental instinct in man to fight may require a few thousand more years to yield to the advisability of settling differences around a table in a council-chamber, but one can’t tell.  Much less time may be necessary.  The tree-dwellers and the cave-dwellers and the tent-dwellers spent most of their time scrapping.  We do have intervals of peace in which to get ready to fight again.”

“So did they, though their intervals were shorter, perhaps, owing to their simpler methods of attack.”  Selwyn laughed.  “In their day, warfare being largely a personal or tribal affair, little time was necessary for preparation.  With us the whole machinery of government is needed to murder and maim and devastate and ruin.  Civilization and science and education have complicated pretty hopelessly the adjustments of disputes, the taking of territory, and the acceptance of opposing ideals.  The biggest artillery and the best brains for butchery at present are having their day.  Humanity in the making has its discouraging side.”

“It has!” David Guard’s voice was emphatic, though he, too, laughed.  “If humanity made claim to being a finished product, there’d be justification for more than discouragement.  It makes no such claim.  Fists and clubs, and slingshots and battle-axes, are handier weapons than guns and cannon, and armored air-ships and under-sea craft, but in the days of the former using, but one kind of army was sent out to fight.  To-day we send out two.”

“Two?” Selwyn looked puzzled.  “What two?”

“One to undo, as far as possible, the work of the other.  The second army, not the first, is the test of humanity’s advance; the army that tries to keep life in the man the other army has tried to kill, to give back what has been taken away, to help what has been hurt, to feed what has been starved, to clothe what is made naked, to build up what has been broken down.  Each country that to-day gives fight, equips and trains and sends out two contrasting armies.  They work together, but with opposing purposes.  The second army—­”