“There’s something bigger coming,” he said.  “Here everything seems to be going on much the same, but over there you feel it.  Something growing silently out of all this blood and mud.  I find myself wondering what the men are staring at, but when I look there’s nothing as far as my field-glasses will reach but waste and desolation.  And it isn’t only on the faces of our own men.  It’s in the eyes of the prisoners too.  As if they saw something.  A funny ending to the war, if the people began to think.”

Mrs. Phillips was running a Convalescent Home in Folkestone, he told her; and had even made a speech.  Hilda was doing relief work among the ruined villages of France.

“It’s a new world we shall be called upon to build,” he said.  “We must pay more heed to the foundation this time.”

She seldom discussed the war with her father.  At the beginning, he had dreamed with Greyson of a short and glorious campaign that should weld all classes together, and after which we should forgive our enemies and shape with them a better world.  But as the months went by, he appeared to grow indifferent; and Joan, who got about twelve hours a day of it outside, welcomed other subjects.

It surprised her when one evening after dinner he introduced it himself.

“What are you going to do when it’s over?” he asked her.  “You won’t give up the fight, will you, whatever happens?” She had not known till then that he had been taking any interest in her work.

“No,” she answered with a laugh, “no matter what happens, I shall always want to be in it.”

“Good lad,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.  “It will be an ugly world that will come out of all this hate and anger.  The Lord will want all the help that He can get.”

“And you don’t forget our compact, do you?” he continued, “that I am to be your backer.  I want to be in it too.”

She shot a glance at him.  He was looking at the portrait of that old Ironside Allway who had fought and died to make a nobler England, as he had dreamed.  A grim, unprepossessing gentleman, unless the artist had done him much injustice, with high, narrow forehead, and puzzled, staring eyes.

She took the cigarette from her lips and her voice trembled a little.

“I want you to be something more to me than that, sir,” she said.  “I want to feel that I’m an Allway, fighting for the things we’ve always had at heart.  I’ll try and be worthy of the name.”

Her hand stole out to him across the table, but she kept her face away from him.  Until she felt his grasp grow tight, and then she turned and their eyes met.

“You’ll be the last of the name,” he said.  “Something tells me that.  I’m glad you’re a fighter.  I always prayed my child might be a fighter.”

Arthur had not been home since the beginning of the war.  Twice he had written them to expect him, but the little fleet of mine sweepers had been hard pressed, and on both occasions his leave had been stopped at the last moment.  One afternoon he turned up unexpectedly at the hospital.  It was a few weeks after the Conscription Act had been passed.