want to admit it.  While I have that instinct, I don’t think I shall really die; when I lose it, I think I shall.”  He was conscious of Noel’s face turning towards him, but had the feeling that she wasn’t really listening.  “I suspect that what we call spirit is just the fighting instinct; that what we call matter is the mood of lying down.  Whether, as Mr. Pierson says, God is outside us, or, as monsieur thinks, we are all part of God, I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Ah!  There we are!” said the man in khaki.  “We all speak after our temperaments, and none of us know.  The religions of the world are just the poetic expressions of certain strongly marked temperaments.  Monsieur was a poet just now, and his is the only temperament which has never yet been rammed down the world’s throat in the form of religion.  Go out and proclaim your views from the housetops, monsieur, and see what happens.”

The painter shook his head with a smile which seemed to Fort very bright on the surface, and very sad underneath.

“Non, monsieur,” he said; “the artist does not wish to impose his temperament.  Difference of temperament is the very essence of his joy, and his belief in life.  Without difference there would be no life for him.  ‘Tout casse, tout lasse,’ but change goes on for ever:  We artists reverence change, monsieur; we reverence the newness of each morning, of each night, of each person, of each expression of energy.  Nothing is final for us; we are eager for all and always for more.  We are in love, you see, even with-death.”

There was a silence; then Fort heard Pierson murmur: 

“That is beautiful, monsieur; but oh! how wrong!” “And what do you think, Nollie?” said the man in khaki suddenly.  The girl had been sitting very still in her low chair, with her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes on the fire, and the lamplight shining down on her fair hair; she looked up, startled, and her eyes met Fort’s.

“I don’t know; I wasn’t listening.”  Something moved in him, a kind of burning pity, a rage of protection.  He said quickly: 

“These are times of action.  Philosophy seems to mean nothing nowadays.  The one thing is to hate tyranny and cruelty, and protect everything that’s weak and lonely.  It’s all that’s left to make life worth living, when all the packs of all the world are out for blood.”

Noel was listening now, and he went on fervently:  “Why!  Even we who started out to fight this Prussian pack, have caught the pack feeling—­so that it’s hunting all over the country, on every sort of scent.  It’s a most infectious thing.”

“I cannot see that we are being infected, Captain Fort.”

“I’m afraid we are, Mr. Pierson.  The great majority of people are always inclined to run with the hounds; the pressure’s great just now; the pack spirit’s in the air.”

Pierson shook his head.  “No, I cannot see it,” he repeated; “it seems to me that we are all more brotherly, and more tolerant.”