Simon Called Peter | Page 9

but then one can never tell from appearances. At any rate he
chose his words with care, and Graham, opposite but sitting rather
upright, could not but sense his meaning.
"Well, well, well," he said, "to think we should come to this! A
European war in this century, and we in it! Not that I'll believe it till I
hear it officially. While there's life there's hope, eh, Graham?"
Peter nodded, for he did not know what to say.
"The question is," went on the other, "that if we are carried into war,
what is the best policy? Some fools will lose their heads, of course, and
chuck everything to run into it. But I've no use for fools, Graham."
"No, sir," said Peter.
"No use for fools," repeated Mr. Lessing. "I shall carry on with
business as usual, and I hope other people will carry on with theirs.
There are plenty of men who can fight, and who ought to, without
disorganising everything. Hilda would see that too--she's such a
sensible girl. Look at that Boer affair, and all that foolery about the
C.I.V. Why, I met a South African at the club the other day who said
we'd have done ten times as well without 'em. You must have trained
men these days, and, after all, it's the men behind the armies that win
the war. Men like you and I, Graham, each doing his ordinary job
without excitement. That's the type that's made old England. You ought
to preach about it, Graham. Come to think, it fits in with what you said
this morning, and a good sermon too, young man. Every man's got to
put his house in order and carry on. You meant that, didn't you?"
"Something like that," said Peter; "but as far as the clergy are
concerned, I still think the Bishops ought to pick their men."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Mr. Lessing, stretching himself a bit. "But I
don't think the clergy could be much use over there. As the Canon said,
there will be plenty to do at home. In any case it would be no use

rushing the Bishops. Let them see what's needed, and then let them
choose their men, eh? A man like London's sure to be in the know.
Good thing he's your Bishop, Graham: you can leave it to him easily?"
"I should think so, sir," said Peter forlornly.
"Oh, well, glad to hear you say it, I'm sure, Graham, and so will Mrs.
Lessing be, and Hilda. We're old-fashioned folk, you know.... Well,
well, and I suppose I oughtn't to keep you. I'll come with you to the
door, my boy."
He walked ahead of the young man into the hall, and handed him his
hat himself. On the steps they shook hands to the fire of small
sentences. "Drop in some evening, won't you? Don't know if I really
congratulated you on the sermon; you spoke extraordinarily well,
Graham. You've a great gift. After all, this war will give you a bit of a
chance, eh? We must hear you again in St. John's.... Good-afternoon."
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Lessing," said Graham, "and thank you for all
you've said."
In the street he walked slowly, and he thought of all Mr. Lessing had
not said as well as all he had. After all, he had spoken sound sense, and
there was Hilda. He couldn't lose Hilda, and if the old man turned out
obstinate--well, it would be all but impossible to get her. Probably
things were not as bad as he had imagined. Very likely it would all be
over by Christmas. If so, it was not much use throwing everything up.
Perhaps he could word the letter to the Bishop a little differently. He
turned over phrases all the way home, and got them fairly pat. But it
was a busy evening, and he did not write that night.
Monday always began as a full day, what with staff meeting and so on,
and its being Bank Holiday did not make much difference to them. But
in the afternoon he was free to read carefully the Sunday papers, and
was appalled with the swiftness of the approach of the universal
cataclysm. After Evensong and supper, then, he got out paper and pen
and wrote, though it took much longer than he thought it would. In the
end he begged the Bishop to remember him if it was really necessary to

find more chaplains, and expressed his readiness to serve the Church
and the country when he was wanted. When it was written, he sat long
over the closed envelope and smoked a couple of pipes. He wondered if
men were killing each other, even now, just over the water. He pictured
a battle scene, drawing from