“A racial unit in a foreign Empire,” commented Yeovil.

“We may arrive at the position of being the dominant factor in that Empire,” said Cicely, “impressing our national characteristics on it, and perhaps dictating its dynastic future and the whole trend of its policy.  Such things have happened in history.  Or we may become strong enough to throw off the foreign connection at a moment when it can be done effectually and advantageously.  But meanwhile it is necessary to preserve our industrial life and our social life, and for that reason we must accommodate ourselves to present circumstances, however distasteful they may be.  Emigration to some colonial wilderness, or holding ourselves rigidly aloof from the life of the capital, won’t help matters.  Really, Murrey, if you will think things over a bit, you will see that the course I am following is the one dictated by sane patriotism.”

“Whom the gods wish to render harmless they first afflict with sanity,” said Yeovil bitterly.  “You may be content to wait for a hundred years or so, for this national revival to creep and crawl us back into a semblance of independence and world-importance.  I’m afraid I haven’t the patience or the philosophy to sit down comfortably and wait for a change of fortune that won’t come in my time—­if it comes at all.”

Cicely changed the drift of the conversation; she had only introduced the argument for the purpose of defining her point of view and accustoming Yeovil to it, as one leads a nervous horse up to an unfamiliar barrier that he is required eventually to jump.

“In any case,” she said, “from the immediately practical standpoint England is the best place for you till you have shaken off all traces of that fever.  Pass the time away somehow till the hunting begins, and then go down to the East Wessex country; they are looking out for a new master after this season, and if you were strong enough you might take it on for a while.  You could go to Norway for fishing in the summer and hunt the East Wessex in the winter.  I’ll come down and do a bit of hunting too, and we’ll have house-parties, and get a little golf in between whiles.  It will be like old times.”

Yeovil looked at his wife and laughed.

“Who was that old fellow who used to hunt his hounds regularly through the fiercest times of the great Civil War?  There is a picture of him, by Caton Woodville, I think, leading his pack between King Charles’s army and the Parliament forces just as some battle was going to begin.  I have often thought that the King must have disliked him rather more than he disliked the men who were in arms against him; they at least cared, one way or the other.  I fancy that old chap would have a great many imitators nowadays, though, when it came to be a question of sport against soldiering.  I don’t know whether anyone has said it, but one might almost assert that the German victory was won on the golf-links of Britain.”