Each man or woman born strong and given the chance to increase in vigour which would build belief in life and living, in a future, was needed as breath and air are needed--even such an one as in the past would have wielded a sort of unearned sceptre as a Head of the House of Coombe.

A man born a blacksmith, if he were of like quality, would meet equally the world's needs, but each would be doing in his way his part of that work which it seemed to-day only demigod and superman could fairly confront.
There was time for much thinking in long hours spent shut in a railroad carriage and his mind was, in these days, not given to letting him rest.
He had talked with many men back from the Front on leave and he had always noted the marvel of both minds and bodies at the relief from strain--from maddening noise, from sights of death and horror, from the needs of decency and common comfort and cleanliness which had become unheard of luxury.

London, which to the Londoner seemed caught in the tumult and turmoil of war, was to these men rest and peace.
Coombe felt, when he descended at the small isolated station and stood looking at the climbing moor, that he was like one of those who had left the roar of battle behind and reached utter quiet.

London was a world's width away and here the War did not exist.

In Flanders and in France it filled the skies with thunders and drenched the soil with blood.