Reginald | Page 7

she resumed combatively, "it's the prevailing fashion to
believe in perpetual change and mutability, and all that sort of thing,
and to say we are all merely an improved form of primeval ape--of
course you subscribe to that doctrine?"
"I think it decidedly premature; in most people I know the process is far
from complete."
"And equally of course you are quite irreligious?"
"Oh, by no means. The fashion just now is a Roman Catholic frame of
mind with an Agnostic conscience: you get the mediaeval
picturesqueness of the one with the modern conveniences of the other."
The Duchess suppressed a sniff. She was one of those people who
regard the Church of England with patronising affection, as if it were
something that had grown up in their kitchen garden.
"But there are other things," she continued, "which I suppose are to a
certain extent sacred even to you. Patriotism, for instance, and Empire,
and Imperial responsibility, and blood- is-thicker-than-water, and all
that sort of thing."
Reginald waited for a couple of minutes before replying, while the
Lord of Rimini temporarily monopolised the acoustic possibilities of
the theatre.
"That is the worst of a tragedy," he observed, "one can't always hear
oneself talk. Of course I accept the Imperial idea and the responsibility.
After all, I would just as soon think in Continents as anywhere else.

And some day, when the season is over and we have the time, you shall
explain to me the exact blood-brotherhood and all that sort of thing that
exists between a French Canadian and a mild Hindoo and a
Yorkshireman, for instance."
"Oh, well, 'dominion over palm and pine,' you know," quoted the
Duchess hopefully; "of course we mustn't forget that we're all part of
the great Anglo-Saxon Empire."
"Which for its part is rapidly becoming a suburb of Jerusalem. A very
pleasant suburb, I admit, and quite a charming Jerusalem. But still a
suburb."
"Really, to be told one's living in a suburb when one is conscious of
spreading the benefits of civilisation all over the world! Philanthropy--I
suppose you will say THAT is a comfortable delusion; and yet even
you must admit that whenever want or misery or starvation is known to
exist, however distant or difficult of access, we instantly organise relief
on the most generous scale, and distribute it, if need be, to the uttermost
ends of the earth."
The Duchess paused, with a sense of ultimate triumph. She had made
the same observation at a drawing-room meeting, and it had been
extremely well received.
"I wonder," said Reginald, "if you have ever walked down the
Embankment on a winter night?"
"Gracious, no, child! Why do you ask?"
"I didn't; I only wondered. And even your philanthropy, practised in a
world where everything is based on competition, must have a debit as
well as a credit account. The young ravens cry for food."
"And are fed."
"Exactly. Which presupposes that something else is fed upon."

"Oh, you're simply exasperating. You've been reading Nietzsche till
you haven't got any sense of moral proportion left. May I ask if you are
governed by ANY laws of conduct whatever?"
"There are certain fixed rules that one observes for one's own comfort.
For instance, never be flippantly rude to any inoffensive grey-bearded
stranger that you may meet in pine forests or hotel smoking-rooms on
the Continent. It always turns out to be the King of Sweden."
"The restraint must be dreadfully irksome to you. When I was younger,
boys of your age used to be nice and innocent."
"Now we are only nice. One must specialise in these days. Which
reminds me of the man I read of in some sacred book who was given a
choice of what he most desired. And because he didn't ask for titles and
honours and dignities, but only for immense wealth, these other things
came to him also."
"I am sure you didn't read about him in any sacred book."
"Yes; I fancy you will find him in Debrett."

REGINALD'S PEACE POEM

"I'm writing a poem on Peace," said Reginald, emerging from a
sweeping operation through a tin of mixed biscuits, in whose depths a
macaroon or two might yet be lurking.
"Something of the kind seems to have been attempted already," said the
Other.
"Oh, I know; but I may never have the chance again. Besides, I've got a
new fountain pen. I don't pretend to have gone on any very original
lines; in writing about Peace the thing is to say what everybody else is
saying, only to say it better. It begins with the usual ornithological

emotion -
'When the widgeon westward winging Heard the folk Vereeniginging,
Heard the shouting and the singing'" -
"Vereeniginging is good, but why widgeon?"
"Why not? Anything that winged