Thus to lift the veil on life behind the lines in time of war is a thankless task.  The stay-at-homes will not believe, and particularly they whose smug respectability and conventional religion has been put to no such fiery trial.  Moreover they will do more than disbelieve; they will say that the story is not fit to be told.  Nor is it.  But then it should never have been lived.  That very respectability, that very conventionality, that very contented backboneless religion made it possible—­all but made it necessary.  For it was those things which allowed the world to drift into the war, and what the war was nine days out of ten ought to be thrust under the eyes of those who will not believe.  It is a small thing that men die in battle, for a man has but one life to live and it is good to give it for one’s friends; but it is such an evil that it has no like, this drifting of a world into a hell to which men’s souls are driven like red maple leaves before the autumn wind.

The old-fashioned pious books made hell stink of brimstone and painted the Devil hideous.  But Satan is not such a fool.  Champagne and Martinis do not taste like Gregory powder, nor was St. Anthony tempted by shrivelled hags.  Paganism can be gay, and passion look like love.  Moreover, still more truly, Christ could see the potentiality of virtue in Mary Magdalene and of strength in Simon called Peter.  The conventional religious world does not.

A curious feature, too, of that strange life was its lack of consecutiveness.  It was like the pages of La Vie Parisienne.  The friend of to-day was gone for ever to-morrow.  A man arrived, weary and dirty and craving for excitement, in some unknown town; in half an hour he had stepped into the gay glitter of wine and women’s smiles; in half a dozen he had been whirled away.  The days lingered and yet flew; the pages were twirled ever more dazzlingly; only at the end men saw in a blinding flash whither they had been led.

These things, then, are set out in this book.  This is its atmosphere.  They are truly set out.  They are not white-washed; still less are they pictured as men might have seen them in more sober moments, as the Puritan world would see them now.  Nor does the book set forth the author’s judgment, for that is not his idea of a novel.  It sets out what Peter and Julie saw and did, and what it appeared to them to be while they did it.  Very probably, then, the average reader had better read no further than this....

But at any rate let him not read further than is written.  The last page has been left blank.  It has been left blank for a reason, because the curtain falls not on the conclusion of the lives of those who have stepped upon the boards, but at a psychological moment in their story.  The Lord has turned to look upon Peter, and Julie has seen that He has looked.  It is enough; they were happy who, going down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, saw a vision of God’s love even there.  For the Christ of Calvary moved to His Cross again but a few short years ago; and it is enough in one book to tell how Simon failed to follow, but how Jesus turned to look on Peter.