decide between German militarism and British industrialism. He chose
neither. As for atrocities, he despised the people who committed them as
inferior criminal types. There was nothing national about crime.

And yet, war! War! Just war! Not right or wrong, but just war itself.
Should he join? Should he give himself over to war? The question was in
his mind for some weeks. Not because he thought England was right and
Germany wrong. Probably Germany was wrong, but he refused to make a
choice. Not because he felt inspired. No. But just--war.

The deterrent was, the giving himself over into the power of other men,
and into the power of the mob-spirit of a democratic army. Should he give
himself over? Should he make over his own life and body to the control of
something which he _knew_ was inferior, in spirit, to his own self?
Should he commit himself into the power of an inferior control? Should
he? Should he betray himself?

He was going to put himself into the power of his inferiors, and he knew
it. He was going to subjugate himself. He was going to be ordered about
by petty _canaille_ of non-commissioned officers--and even commissioned
officers. He who was born and bred free. Should he do it?

He went to his wife, to speak to her.

'Shall I join up, Winifred?'

She was silent. Her instinct also was dead against it. And yet a certain
profound resentment made her answer:

'You have three children dependent on you. I don't know whether you have