about Germany and other countries, and neither of course had any real knowledge of any country outside their own; for, though both had passed through considerable tracts of foreign ground at one time or another, they had never remarked anything except its surface,—­its churches, and its sunsets.  Again, both assumed that they were democrats, but neither knew the meaning of the word, nor felt that the working man could be really trusted; and both revered Church and, King:  Both disliked conscription, but considered it necessary.  Both favoured Home Rule for Ireland, but neither thought it possible to grant it.  Both wished for the war to end, but were for prosecuting it to Victory, and neither knew what they meant by that word.  So much for the large.  On the narrower issues, such as strategy, and the personality of their country’s leaders, they were opposed.  Edward was a Westerner, Robert an Easterner, as was natural in one who had lived twenty-five years in Ceylon.  Edward favoured the fallen government, Robert the risen.  Neither had any particular reasons for their partisanship except what he had read in the journals.  After all—­what other reasons could they have had?  Edward disliked the Harmsworth Press; Robert thought it was doing good.  Robert was explosive, and rather vague; Edward dreamy, and a little didactic.  Robert thought poor Ted looking like a ghost; Edward thought poor Bob looking like the setting sun.  Their faces were indeed as curiously contrasted as their views and voices; the pale-dark, hollowed, narrow face of Edward, with its short, pointed beard, and the red-skinned, broad, full, whiskered face of Robert.  They parted for the night with an affectionate hand-clasp.  So began a queer partnership which consisted, as the days went on, of half an hour’s companionship at breakfast, each reading the paper; and of dinner together perhaps three times a week.  Each thought his brother very odd, but continued to hold the highest opinion of him.  And, behind it all, the deep tribal sense that they stood together in trouble, grew.  But of that trouble they never spoke, though not seldom Robert would lower his journal, and above the glasses perched on his well-shaped nose, contemplate his brother, and a little frown of sympathy would ridge his forehead between his bushy eyebrows.  And once in a way he would catch Edward’s eyes coming off duty from his journal, to look, not at his brother, but at—­the skeleton; when that happened, Robert would adjust his glasses hastily, damn the newspaper type, and apologise to Edward for swearing.  And he would think:  ’Poor Ted!  He ought to drink port, and—­and enjoy himself, and forget it.  What a pity he’s a parson!’