"The English have a mild aspect and a ringing, cheerful voice."—Emerson.

"By Jove," said the Infant Dundas, "this Paris of yours is a jolly town."

Beltara the painter had invited Aurelle to spend an evening in his studio to meet General Bramble, who was passing through Paris on his way to Constantinople, accompanied by Dundas and Dr. O'Grady.

The general was sitting on a divan piled high with many-coloured cushions, and gazing with emotion upon the sketch of a nude figure. The Greek heads, Etruscan warriors and Egyptian scribes about him had the rare and spiritual beauty of mutilated things. Aurelle gazed at his old chief as he sat motionless among the statues, and consecrated the brief moment of silence to the memory of his virtues.

"A fine woman," exclaimed the general, "a very fine woman indeed! What a pity I can't show you a few Soudan negresses, Beltara!"

Beltara interrupted him to introduce one of his friends, Lieutenant Vincent, a gunner with a frank, open face. The general, fixing his clear gaze on Aurelle, tried to speak of France and England.

"I'm glad, Messiou, that we've come to an understanding at last. I'm not very well up in all this business, but I can't stand all these bickering politicians."

Aurelle was suddenly conscious of the general's real sincerity and anxiety about the future. Lieutenant Vincent came up to them. He had the rather wild, attractive grace of the present-day youth. As he sat listening to General Bramble's words about English friendship, his lips parted as though he was burning to break in.

"Will you allow me, sir," he suddenly interrupted, "to tell you how we look at it. Frankly speaking, you English were marvellous during the war, but since the Armistice you have been on the wrong tack entirely. You are on the wrong tack because you don't know the Germans. Now I've just come back from Germany, and it is absolutely clear that as soon as those fellows have enough to eat they'll fall on us again. You want to get their forgiveness for your victory. But why should they accept their defeat? Would you accept it in their place?"

"The sense of shame after victory," said the doctor gently, "is a sentiment quite natural to barbarous peoples. After employing the utmost cruelty during the fight, they come and implore their slaughtered enemies' pardon. 'Don't bear us a grudge for having cut off your heads,' they say; 'if we had been less lucky you would have cut off ours.' The English always go in for this kind of posthumous politeness. They call it behaving like sportsmen. It's really a survival of the 'enemy's taboo.'"

"It would be quite all right," put in Lieutenant Vincent breathlessly, "if you waited to appease the shades of your enemies till you were quite certain they were really dead. But the Germans are very much alive. Please understand, sir, that I'm speaking absolutely without hate. What I mean is that we must destroy Carthage—that is German military power—so completely that the very idea of revenge will appear absurd to any German with an ounce of common sense. As long as there exists at any time the barest chance of an enterprise, they will attempt it. I don't blame them in the least for it; in fact I admire them for not despairing of their country; but our duty—and yours too—is to make such an enterprise impossible."

"Yes," said the general in rather feeble French; "but you can't hit a man when he's down, can you?"

"It's not a question of being down, sir. Do you know that the three big gunpowder factories in Germany pay a dividend of fifteen per cent.? Do you know that Krupp is building a factory in Finland in order to escape our supervision? Do you realize that in ten years, if we don't keep an eye on their chemical factories, the Germans will be able to wage a frightful war against us, and use methods of which we haven't the slightest inkling? Now why should we run this risk when we are clearly in a position to take all precautions for some years to come? Carthage must be destroyed, sir. Why, just look at Silesia...."

"Every one's talking about Silesia," said the Infant Dundas. "What is it, really?"

Vincent, waving his arms despairingly, went to the piano and played a long, sad phrase of Borodin, the one which is sung by the recumbent woman just before Prince Igor's dances. Before Aurelle's eyes floated Northern landscapes, muddy fields and bleeding faces, mingling with the women's bare shoulders and the silk embroideries in the studio. He was suddenly seized by a healthy emotion, like a breath of fresh air, which made him want to ride across the wide world beside General Bramble.

"Doctor, can't we remain 'musketeers'?" he said.

"Can't be done," said the doctor sarcastically, "till this damned peace ends."

"You hateful person!" said Beltara. "Will you have a whisky and soda?"

"What!" exclaimed the general joyfully, "you've got whisky in the house, here, in France?"

"It is pleasant to notice," said the doctor, "that the war has been of some use after all. Your whisky, Beltara, quite reassures me about the League of Nations. As the Entente is necessary to the safety of our two countries, the responsibility of preserving good relations ought to be given to doctors and psychologists. Such experts would make it their business to cultivate those sentiments which tend to unite two countries into one. They would remind people, by means of noise and military ceremonies, of the great things they had achieved together. England would be represented at these functions, as she is in the minds of most Frenchmen, by Scotchmen and Australians. Bagpipes, kilts, bugles and tam-o'-shanters are far better diplomatists than ambassadors are. Pageants, dances, a few sentimental anecdotes, exchanges of song, common sports, common drinks—these are the essence of a good international policy. The Church, which is always so wise and so human, attaches as much importance to works as to faith. The outward signs of friendship are much more important than friendship itself, because they are sufficient to support it."

"Beltara," said the general, "will you ask your friend to play the 'Destiny Waltz' for Messiou?"

Once more the familiar strains rang out, and brought to mind the years of stress and happy comradeship.

"Aurelle, do you remember Marguerite at Amiens—oh, and those two little singers at Poperinghe whom I used to call Vaseline and Glycerine? They sang English songs without understanding a word, with the funniest accent in the world."

"And the Outersteene innkeeper's pretty daughters, Aurelle? Did you ever see them again?"

"Goodness knows where they've got to, sir; Outersteene isn't rebuilt yet."

"You never got to Salonica, did you? We had Mirka there; a fine pair of legs she had too!"

Meanwhile the Infant Dundas had discovered that Lieutenant Vincent played tennis, and had struck up a firm friendship. Taking hold of a palette, he began to explain a few strokes. "Look here, old man, if you cut your service towards the right, your ball will spin from right to left, won't it?"

Vincent, who had been somewhat reserved at first, was melting, like so many others, before the youthful charm of the Happy Nation.

Soon echoes of the hunt were heard in the studio, and Aurelle received full upon his person an orange that spun from right to left.

General Bramble took out his watch and reminded Aurelle he was taking the Orient Express. Beltara escorted him to the door, and Aurelle, Vincent and the Infant followed behind.

"I like the Vincent boy," said the general to his host. "He's a splendid fellow, really splendid! When he came in, I thought he was English."

Aurelle wished them a pleasant journey.

"Well, good-bye, Dundas. It was nice seeing you again. I suppose you're jolly glad you're going to Constantinople? I rather envy you."

"Yes," said the Infant, "I'm quite bucked about it, because the general who was there before us is leaving us a house that's got up in absolutely British style; there's a bathroom and a tennis-court. So I'll be able to go on practising my overhead service. Splendid, isn't it?"

They exchanged greetings and good wishes. The stars were shining in a moonless sky. On the pavement in the avenue they heard the aide-de-camp changing his step to fit his general's. The door closed upon them.

In the gallery, in front of the green bronze warriors with their large, staring eyes, the three Frenchmen looked at one another, and the corners of their mouths twitched with the same friendly smile.