urselves going to feel any difference in
what you call social conditions?"

Doggie lit another cigarette, chiefly in order to gain time for
thought; but an odd instinct made him secure the matchbox before he
picked out the cigarette. Superficially, Peggy's proposition was
incontrovertible. Unless there happened some social cataclysm,
involving a newly democratized world in ghastly chaos, which after all
was a remote possibility, the externals of gentle life would undergo
very slight modification. Yet there was something fundamentally wrong
in Peggy's conception of post-war existence. Something wrong in
essentials. Now, a critical attitude towards Peggy, whose presence was
a proof of her splendid loyalty, seemed hateful. But there was
something wrong all the same. Something wrong in Peggy herself that
put her into opposition. In one aspect, she was the pre-war Peggy,
with her cut-and-dried little social ambitions and her definite
projects of attainment; but in another she was not. The pre-war Peggy
had swiftly turned into the patriotic English girl who had hounded him
into the army. He found himself face to face with an amorphous,
characterless sort of Peggy whom he did not know. It was perplexing,
baffling. Before he could formulate an idea, she went on:

"You silly old thing, what change is there likely to be? What change
is there now, after all? There's a scarcity of men. Naturally. They're
out fighting. But when they come home on leave, life goes on just the
same as before--tennis parties, little dances, dinners. Of course,
lots of people are hard hit. Did I tell you that Jack Paunceby was
killed--the only son? The war's awful and dreadful, I know--but if we
don't go through with it cheerfully, what's the good of us?"

"I think I'm pretty cheerful," said Doggie.

"Oh, you're not grousing and you're making the best of it. You're
perfectly splendid. But you're philosophizing such a lot over it. The
only thing before us is to do in Germany, Prussian militarism, and so
on, and then there'll be peace, and we'll all be happy again."

"Have you met many men who say that?" he asked.

"Heaps. Oliver was only talking about it the other day."

"Oliver?"

At his quick challenge he could not help noticing a little cloud, as
of vexation, pass over her face.

"Yes, Oliver," she replied, with an unnecessary air of defiance. "He
has been over here on short leave. Went back a fortnight ago. He's as
cheerful as cheerful can