“But I do know!” Chantrell contradicted him angrily. “I wasn’t there, but I know exactly what you mean! Victoria was alive then. And little boys like you wore velvet suits with white collars. And there was pretty music and pretty laughter that was really gay! And the women’s jewels were all real, and a man who could make fun of the Government in jolly rhymes was given a knighthood! Haven’t I read about it all my life? Of course I know! But what about me? What about the first thing I can remember?”

“All right, now you tell one,” agreed Sir Reginald promptly, playing the game.

“An air raid.”

“Are you as young as that?” said Sir Reginald aghast.

“I’m as old as that. I was born to the War, of the War. I can’t remember anything else. I can’t remember my father very well, because I never saw much of him. I was the youngest of five. We were always a little hungry. We were always a little frightened. We were always brave, though—” He gave his bitter laugh. “—because Daddy was fighting for England, and that was a great honor! Well, finally he died for England — thrown away — wasted — futile — like all the rest of them!” He buried his face in his hands again.

“Wasted?” repeated Hilary, who was listening intently.

“I don’t pretend to mourn my father as an individual,” admitted Chantrell from behind his shielding hands. “It isn’t that. He was nothing to me, personally. I cried because the others did. They missed him. He was a jolly man, they tell me, who used to come home with a bag of boiled sweets in his pocket. Well, what was the good of his dying, like that? What’s the good of anything? What’s England worth—now?”

“England’s the sanest spot on the earth today,” maintained Sir Reginald stoutly.

“I don’t know about sane,” said Chantrell, “but I wouldn’t give tuppence for England today, freehold. Not but what I do pay the Government considerably more than that each year for the privilege of being alive in England!”

“Exactly,” said Hilary. “And worth it too.”

“That’s the point,” said Sir Reginald. “It is a privilege, these days.”

“And your income tax,” pursued Chantrell, glaring at him, “is probably a good deal more than I can earn in a year.”

“I don’t doubt it,” agreed Sir Reginald pacifically.

“Well, don’t you care? Don’t you ever wish you could hang on to all that money for yourself? Or have you got so much it doesn’t matter?”