leading to national antagonism, and to kill them by exposure to cold truth; also, to put in friendly words, privately and publicly, on behalf of human kindness, across the barriers of hate and malignity. Any names for the New York branch?"
The doctor took down twelve names, pledged solemnly to his programme. . . .
I remembered that scene in New York when I stood with the little man in Susy Whincop's drawing-room.
"What about this crowd?" I asked.
"Sonny," he said, "this place is reeking with humanity. The real stuff. Idealists who have seen Hell pretty close, most of them. Why, in this room there's enough good-will to move mountains of cruelty, if we could get a move on all together."
It was then that I saw Charles Fortune, though I was looking for Brand.
Fortune was wearing one of his special "faces." I interpreted it as his soulful and mystical face. It broke a little as he winked at me.
"Remarkable gathering," he said. "The Intellectuals come back to their lair. Some of them, like Little Bo-*peep who lost her sheep and left their tails behind them."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"Nothing," he answered. "We used to talk like that. I'm trying to grope back."
He put his hand over his forehead wearily.
"God!" he said. "How terrible was war in a Nissen hut! I cannot even now forget that I was every yard a soldier!"
He began to hum his well-remembered anthem, "Blear-eyed Bill, the Butcher of the Boche," and then checked himself.
"Nay, let us forget that melody of blood. Let us rather sing of fragrant things of peace." He hummed
