“Say a Christian, and have done with it,” said the young man.

“No,” said Mr. Lavender, who had risen to his feet, “I will not go so far as that.  You are not a Christian, you are a Pharisee.  I abhor you.”

“And I abhor you,” said the young man suddenly.  “I am a Christian Socialist, but I refuse to consider you my brother.  And I can tell you this:  Some day when through our struggle the triumph of Christian Socialism and of Peace is assured, we shall see that you firebrands and jingoes get no chance to put up your noxious heads and disturb the brotherhood of the world.  We shall stamp you out.  We shall do you in.  We who believe in love will take jolly good care that you apostles of hate get all we’ve had and more—­if you provoke us enough that is.”

He stopped, for Mr. Lavender’s figure had rigidified on the other side of the table into the semblance of one who is about to address the House of Lords.

“I can find here,” he cried, “no analogy with religious persecution.  This is a simple matter.  The burden of defending his country falls equally on every citizen.  I know not, and I care not, what promises were made to you, or in what spirit the laws of compulsory service were passed.  You will either serve or go to prison till you do.  I am a plain Englishman, expressing the view of my plain countrymen.”

The young man, tilting back in his chair, rapped on the table with the handle of his dinner-knife.

“Hear, hear!” he murmured.

“And let me tell you this,” continued Mr. Lavender, “you have no right to put a mouthful of food between your lips so long as you are not prepared to die for it.  And if the Huns came here tomorrow I would not lift a finger to save you from the fate you would undoubtedly receive.”

During this colloquy their voices had grown so loud that the maid, entering in dismay, had gone into the bar and informed the company that a Conscientious Objector had eaten all the food and was “carrying on outrageous” in the coffee-room.  On hearing this report those who were assembled—­being four commercial travellers far gone in liquor—­taking up the weapons which came nearest to hand—­to wit, four syphons—­formed themselves two deep and marched into the coffee-room.  Aware at once from Mr. Lavender’s white hair and words that he was not the Objector in question, they advanced upon the young man, who was still seated, and taking up the four points of the compass, began squirting him unmercifully with soda-water.  Blinded and dripping, the unfortunate young fellow tried desperately to elude the cordon of his persecutors, only to receive a fresh stream in his face at each attempt.  Seeing him thus tormented, amid the coarse laughter of these half-drunken “travellers,” Mr. Lavender suffered a moment of the most poignant struggle between his principles and his chivalry.  Then, almost unconsciously grasping the ham-bone, he advanced and called out loudly: