“Yes,” said the Major, “we must just go on killing Germans and collaring every bit of their property we can.”

Mr. Lavender sat a little further forward on his chair, and the trouble in his eyes grew.

“After all’s said and done,” continued the Major; “it’s a simple war—­us or them!  And in the long run it’s bound to be us.  We’ve got the cards.”  Mr. Lavender started, and said in a weak and wavering voice: 

“We shall never sheathe the sword until——­”

“The whole bag of tricks is in our hands.  Might isn’t Right, but Right’s Might, Mr. Lavender; ha, ha!”

Mr. Lavender’s eyes lighted on his glass, and he emptied it in his confusion.  When he looked up again he could not see the Major very well, but could distinctly hear the truculent bonhomie of his voice.

“Every German ought to be interned; all their property ought to be confiscated; all their submarines’ and Zeppelins’ crews ought to be hung; all German prisoners ought to be treated as they treat our men.  We ought to give ’em no quarter.  We ought to bomb their towns out of existence.  I draw the line at their women.  Short of that there’s nothing too bad for them.  I’d treat ’em like rabbits.  Vermin they were, and vermin they remain.”

During this speech the most astounding experience befell Mr. Lavender, so that his eyes nearly started from his head.  It seemed to him, indeed, that he was seated at dinner with a Prussian, and the Major’s voice had no sooner ceased its genial rasping than with a bound forward on his chair, he ejaculated: 

“Behold the man—­the Prussian in his jack-boot!” And, utterly oblivious of the fact that he was addressing Aurora’s father, he went on with almost terrible incoherence:  “Although you have conquered this country, sir, never shall you subdue in my breast the sentiments of liberty and generosity which make me an Englishman.  I abhor you—­invader of the world—­trampler underfoot of the humanities—­enemy of mankind—­apostle of force!  You have blown out the sparks of love and kindliness, and have for ever robbed the Universe.  Prussian!”

The emphasis with which he spoke that word caused his chair, on the edge of which he was sitting, to tilt up under him so that he slid under the table, losing the vision of that figure in helmet and field-grey which he had been apostrophizing.

“Hold up!” said a voice, while Blink joined him nervously beneath the board.

“Never!” cried Mr. Lavender.  “Imprison, maltreat me do what you will.  You have subdued her body, but never will I admit that you have conquered the honour of Britain and trodden her gentle culture into the mud.”

And, convinced that he would now be dragged away to be confined in some dungeon on bread and water, he clasped the leg of the dining-table with all his might, while Blink, sagaciously aware that something peculiar was occurring to her master, licked the back of his neck.  He had been sitting there perhaps half a minute, with his ears stretched to catch the half-whispered sounds above, when he saw a shining object appear under the table, the head, indeed, of the Prussian squatting there to look at him.