temperament, with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more
than any other, gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here
has become fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a gauge
for our emotions. Lovell is going where the one great force of
primitive life remains. He is going to see war. He is going to breathe
an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going to rub shoulders
with men who walk hand in hand with death. That's the sort of tonic we
all want, to remind us that we are human beings with blood in our
veins, and not sawdust-stuffed dolls."

Then Lovell broke silence. He took his pipe from his mouth, and he
addressed Aynesworth.

"Walter," he said, "you are talking rot. There is nothing very complex
or stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one another
unseen; where you feel the sting in your heart which comes from God
knows where, and you crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at
the chap who has potted you from the trenches, or behind a rock, a
thousand yards off. Mine is going to be, except from a spectacular
point of view, a very barren sort of year, compared with what yours
might be if the fire once touched your eyes. I go where life is cruder
and fiercer, perhaps, but you remain in the very city of tragedies."

Aynesworth laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette.

"City of tragedies!" he exclaimed. "It sounds all right, but it's
bunkum all the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me
where to stir the waters."

Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change in