And if. . . . Vane shrugged his shoulders at the thought.

Three days later he had safely shepherded his flock across the water, and
handed it over to his relief. The trip had been uneventful, save for the
extraordinary feat of two of the men who had managed to become incapably
drunk on Government beer; and Vane having spent a night in Dublin, and
inspected the scene of the Sackville Street fighting with a sort of
amazed surprise, prepared to board the S.S. "Connaught" for the return
crossing.

Was it not all written in the Book of the Words?

He might have stopped for a day's cubbing--but he did not; he might have
crossed the preceding evening--but he had not. He merely went on board
the "Connaught," and had an early lunch, which, in all conscience, was a
very normal proceeding. There were a few soldiers on board, but for the
most part the passengers consisted of civilians, with a heavy percentage
of women and children. There were a few expensive-looking gentlemen in
fur coats, who retired early to their cabins, and whom Vane decided must
be Members of Parliament. The smoking-room was occupied by a party of
six young Irishmen, all of them of military age, who announced freely for
the benefit of anyone who cared to listen--and it was not easy to avoid
doing so--that they were Sinn Feiners. For a while Vane studied them,
more to distract his own thoughts than for any interest in their
opinions. It struck him that they were the exact counterpart of the new
clique of humanity which has sprung up recently on this side of the Irish
Sea; advanced thinkers without thought--the products of a little
education without the ballast of a brain. Wild, enthusiastic in their
desire for change, they know not what they want as the result of the
change. Destructive without being constructive, they bemuse themselves
with long words, and scorn simplicity. No scheme is too wild or lunatic
for them, provided they themselves are in the limelight. . . . And as
for the others--_qu'importe_? . . . Self is their God; the ill-digested,
half-understood schemes of great thinkers their food; talk their
recreation. And they play overtime. . . .

He opened the smoking-room door and stepped out on to the deck. For a
few moments he stood still watching the water slip by, and drawing in
great mouthfuls of fresh air. He felt he wanted to purge himself of the
rotten atmosphere he had just left. Then with slow, measured steps he
began t