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.