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One eveningit had been a particularly trying one for Joanthere stepped upon the stage a wooden…looking man in a kilt with bagpipes under his arm。 How he had got himself into the programme Joan could not understand。 Managerial watchfulness must have gone to sleep for once。 He played Scotch melodies； and the Parisians liked them； and when he had finished they called him back。 Joan and her friends occupied a box close to the stage。 The wooden…looking Scot glanced up at her； and their eyes met。 And as the applause died down there rose the first low warning strains of the Pibroch。 Joan sat up in her chair and her lips parted。 The savage music quickened。 It shrilled and skrealed。 The blood came surging through her veins。
And suddenly something lying hidden there leaped to life within her brain。 A mad desire surged hold of her to rise and shout defiance at those three thousand pairs of hostile eyes confronting her。 She clutched at the arms of her chair and so kept her seat。 The pibroch ended with its wild sad notes of wailing； and slowly the mist cleared from her eyes； and the stage was empty。 A strange hush had fallen on the house。
She was not aware that her hostess had been watching her。 She was a sweet…faced； white…haired lady。 She touched Joan lightly on the hand。 〃That's the trouble；〃 she whispered。 〃It's in our blood。〃
Could we ever hope to eradicate it？ Was not the survival of this fighting instinct proof that war was still needful to us？ In the sculpture…room of an exhibition she came upon a painted statue of Bellona。 Its grotesqueness shocked her at first sight； the red streaming hair； the wild eyes filled with fury； the wide open mouthone could almost hear it screamingthe white uplifted arms with outstretched hands！ Appalling！ Terrible！ And yet； as she gazed at it； gradually the thing grew curiously real to her。 She seemed to hear the gathering of the chariots； the neighing of the horses； the hurrying of many feet； the sound of an armouring multitude； the shouting； and the braying of the trumpets。
These cold； thin…lipped calculators； arguing that 〃War doesn't pay〃； those lank…haired cosmopolitans； preaching their 〃International；〃 as if the only business of mankind were wages！ War still was the stern school where men learnt virtue； duty； forgetfulness of self； faithfulness unto death。
This particular war； of course； must be stopped： if it were not already too late。 It would be a war for markets； for spheres of commercial influence； a sordid war that would degrade the people。 War； the supreme test of a nation's worth； must be reserved for great ideals。 Besides； she wanted to down Carleton。
One of the women on her list； and the one to whom Mrs。 Denton appeared to attach chief importance； a Madame de Barante； disappointed Joan。 She seemed to have so few opinions of her own。 She had buried her young husband during the Franco…Prussian war。 He had been a soldier。 And she had remained unmarried。 She was still beautiful。
〃I do not think we women have the right to discuss war；〃 she confided to Joan in her gentle； high…bred voice。 〃I suppose you think that out of date。 I should have thought so myself forty years ago。 We talk of 'giving' our sons and lovers； as if they were ours to give。 It makes me a little angry when I hear pampered women speak like that。 It is the men who have to suffer and die。 It is for them to decide。〃
〃But perhaps I can arrange a meeting for you with a friend；〃 she added； 〃who will be better able to help you； if he is in Paris。 I will let you know。〃
She told Joan what she remembered herself of 1870。 She had turned her country house into a hospital and had seen a good deal of the fighting。
〃It would not do to tell the truth； or we should have our children growing up to hate war；〃 she concluded。
She was as good as her word； and sent Joan round a message the next morning to come and see her in the afternoon。 Joan was introduced to a Monsieur de Chaumont。 He was a soldierly…looking gentleman； with a grey moustache； and a deep scar across his face。
〃Hanged if I can see how we are going to get out of it；〃 he answered Joan cheerfully。 〃The moment there is any threat of war； it becomes a point of honour with every nation to do nothing to avoid it。 I remember my old duelling days。 The quarrel may have been about the silliest trifle imaginable。 A single word would have explained the whole thing away。 But to utter it would have stamped one as a coward。 This Egyptian Tra…la…la！ It isn't worth the bones of a single grenadier； as our friends across the Rhine would say。 But I expect； before it's settled； there will be men's bones sufficient； bleaching on the desert； to build another Pyramid。 It's so easily started： that's the devil of it。 A mischievous boy can throw a lighted match into a powder magazine； and then it becomes every patriot's business to see that it isn't put out。 I hate war。 It accomplishes nothing； and leaves everything in a greater muddle than it was before。 But if the idea ever catches fire； I shall have to do all I can to fan the conflagration。 Unless I am prepared to be branded as a poltroon。 Every professional soldier is supposed to welcome war。 Most of us do： it's our opportunity。 There's some excuse for us。 But these menCarleton and their lot： I regard them as nothing better than the Menades of the Commune。 They care nothing if the whole of Europe blazes。 They cannot personally get harmed whatever happens。 It's fun to them。〃
〃But the people who can get harmed；〃 argued Joan。 〃The men who will be dragged away from their work； from their business； used as 'cannon fodder。'〃
He shrugged his shoulders。 〃Oh； they are always eager enough for it； at first；〃 he answered。 〃There is the excitement。 The curiosity。 You must remember that life is a monotonous affair to the great mass of the people。 There's the natural craving to escape from it； to court adventure。 They are not so enthusiastic about it after they have tasted it。 Modern warfare； they soon find； is about as dull a business as science ever invented。〃
There was only one hope that he could see： and that was to switch the people's mind on to some other excitement。 His advices from London told him that a parliamentary crisis was pending。 Could not Mrs。 Denton and her party do something to hasten it？ He； on his side； would consult with the Socialist leaders； who might have something to suggest。
He met Joan； radiant； a morning or two later。 The English Government had resigned and preparations for a general election were already on foot。
〃And God has been good to us； also；〃 he explained。
A well…known artist had been found murdered in his bed and grave suspicion attached to his beautiful young wife。
〃She deserves the Croix de Guerre； if it is proved that she did it；〃 he thought。 〃She will have saved many thousands of livesfor the present。〃
Folk had fixed up a party at his studio to meet her。 She had been there once or twice； but this was a final affair。 She had finished her business in Paris and would be leaving the next morning。 To her surprise； she found Phillips there。 He had come over hurriedly to attend a Socialist confere