“Don’t you think,” said Father Rothschild gently, “that perhaps it is all in some way historical? I don’t think people ever want to lose their faith either in religion or anything else. I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence. I think all these divorces show that. People aren’t content just to muddle along nowadays. … And this word ‘bogus’ they all use. … They won’t make the best of a bad job nowadays. My private schoolmaster used to say, ‘If a thing’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well.’ My Church has taught that in different words for several centuries. But these young people have got hold of another end of the stick, and for all we know it may be the right one. They say, ‘If a thing’s not worth doing well, it’s not worth doing at all.’ It makes everything very difficult for them.”
“Good heavens, I should think it did. What a darned silly principle. I mean to say if one didn’t do anything that wasn’t worth doing well—why, what would one do? I’ve always maintained that success in this world depends on knowing exactly how little effort each job is worth … distribution of energy. … And, I suppose, most people would admit that I was a pretty successful man.”
“Yes, I suppose they would, Outrage,” said Father Rothschild, looking at him rather quizzically.
But that self-accusing voice in the Prime Minister’s heart was silent. There was nothing like a little argument for settling the mind. Everything became so simple as soon as it was put into words.
“And anyway, what do you mean by ‘historical’?”
“Well, it’s like this war that’s coming. …”
“What war?” said the Prime Minister sharply. “No one has said anything to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I’ll be damned,” he said defiantly, “if they shall have a war without consulting me. What’s a Cabinet for if there’s not more mutual confidence than that? What do they want a war for, anyway?”
“That’s the whole point. No one talks about it, and no one wants it. No one talks about it because no one wants it. They’re all afraid to breathe a word about it.”
“Well, hang it all, if no one wants it, who’s going to make them have it?”
“Wars don’t start nowadays because people want them. We long for peace, and fill our newspapers with conferences about disarmament and arbitration, but there is a radical instability in our whole world-order, and soon we shall all be walking into the jaws of destruction again, protesting our pacific intentions.”
“Well, you seem to know all about it,” said Mr. Outrage, “and I think I should have been told sooner. This will have to mean a coalition with that old windbag Brown, I suppose.”
“Anyhow,” said Lord Metroland, “I don’t see how all that explains why my stepson should drink like a fish and go about everywhere with a negress.”
“I think they’re connected, you know,” said Father Rothschild. “But it’s all very difficult.”
Then they separated.
Father Rothschild pulled on a pair of overall trousers in the forecourt and, mounting his motor cycle, disappeared into the night, for he had many people to see and much business to transact before he went to bed.
Lord Metroland left the house in some depression. Margot had taken the car, but it was scarcely five minutes’ walk to Hill Street. He took a vast cigar from his case, lit it and sank his chin in the astrakhan collar of his coat, conforming almost exactly to the popular conception of a highly enviable man. But his heart was heavy. What a lot of nonsense Rothschild had talked. At least he hoped it was nonsense.
By ill-fortune he arrived on the doorstep to find Peter Pastmaster fumbling with the lock, and they entered together. Lord Metroland noticed a tall hat on the table by the door. “Young Trumpington’s, I suppose,” he thought. His stepson did not once look at him, but made straight for the stairs, walking unsteadily, his hat on the back of his head, his umbrella still in his hand.
“Good night, Peter,” said Lord Metroland.
“Oh, go to hell,” said his stepson thickly, then, turning on the stairs, he added, “I’m going abroad tomorrow for a few weeks. Will you tell my mother?”
“Have a good time,” said Lord Metroland. “You’ll find it just as cold everywhere, I’m afraid. Would you care to take the yacht? No one’s using it.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
Lord Metroland went into the study to finish his cigar. It would be awkward if he met young Trumpington on the stairs. He sat down in a very comfortable chair. … A radical instability, Rothschild had said, radical instability. … He looked round his study and saw shelves of books—the Dictionary of National Biography, the Encyclopaedia Britannica in an early and very bulky edition, Who’s Who, Debrett, Burke, Whitaker, several volumes of Hansard, some Blue Books and Atlases—a safe in the corner painted green with a brass handle, his writing table, his secretary’s table, some very comfortable chairs and some very businesslike chairs, a tray with decanters and a plate of sandwiches, his evening mail laid out on the table … radical instability, indeed. How like poor old Outrage to let himself get taken in by that charlatan of a Jesuit.
He heard the front door open and shut behind Alastair Trumpington.
Then he rose and went quickly upstairs, leaving his cigar smouldering in the ashtray, filling the study with fragrant smoke.
Quarter of a mile away the Duchess of Stayle went, as she always did, to say good night to her eldest daughter. She crossed the room and drew up the window a few
