That fragment ended so.  Mr. Britling ceased to read for a time.  “But has it killed them?” he whispered....

“If you had lived, my dear, you and your England would have talked with a younger Germany—­better than I can ever do....”

He turned the pages back, and read here and there with an accumulating discontent.

Section 9

“Dissertations,” said Mr. Britling.

Never had it been so plain to Mr. Britling that he was a weak, silly, ill-informed and hasty-minded writer, and never had he felt so invincible a conviction that the Spirit of God was in him, and that it fell to him to take some part in the establishment of a new order of living upon the earth; it might be the most trivial part by the scale of the task, but for him it was to be now his supreme concern.  And it was an almost intolerable grief to him that his services should be, for all his desire, so poor in quality, so weak in conception.  Always he seemed to be on the verge of some illuminating and beautiful statement of his cause; always he was finding his writing inadequate, a thin treachery to the impulse of his heart, always he was finding his effort weak and ineffective.  In this instance, at the outset he seemed to see with a golden clearness the message of brotherhood, or forgiveness, of a common call.  To whom could such a message be better addressed than to those sorrowing parents; from whom could it come with a better effect than from himself?  And now he read what he had made of this message.  It seemed to his jaded mind a pitifully jaded effort.  It had no light, it had no depth.  It was like the disquisition of a debating society.

He was distressed by a fancy of an old German couple, spectacled and peering, puzzled by his letter.  Perhaps they would be obscurely hurt by his perplexing generalisations.  Why, they would ask, should this Englishman preach to them?

He sat back in his chair wearily, with his chin sunk upon his chest.  For a time he did not think, and then, he read again the sentence in front of his eyes.

    "These boys, these hopes, this war has killed."

The words hung for a time in his mind.

“No!” said Mr. Britling stoutly.  “They live!”

And suddenly it was borne in upon his mind that he was not alone.  There were thousands and tens of thousands of men and women like himself, desiring with all their hearts to say, as he desired to say, the reconciling word.  It was not only his hand that thrust against the obstacles....  Frenchmen and Russians sat in the same stillness, facing the same perplexities; there were Germans seeking a way through to him.  Even as he sat and wrote.  And for the first time clearly he felt a Presence of which he had thought very many times in the last few weeks, a Presence so close to him that it was behind his eyes and in his brain and hands.  It was no trick of his vision; it was a feeling of immediate