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Updated: May 22, 2025
Section 10 For some days Mr. Britling could think of nothing but Hugh, and always with a dull pain at his heart. He felt as he had felt long ago while he had waited downstairs and Hugh upstairs had been under the knife of a surgeon. But this time the operation went on and still went on.
Britling conversing over his garden railings to what was altogether a new type of Britisher in Mr. Direck's experience. It was a tall, lean, sun-bitten youngish man of forty perhaps, in brown tweeds, looking more like the Englishman of the American illustrations than anything Mr. Direck had met hitherto.
The young are the food of war.... Teddy wasn't Mr. Britling's business anyhow. Teddy must do as he thought proper. Mr. Britling would not even advise upon that. And as for Hugh Mr. Britling did his best to brazen it out. "My eldest boy is barely seventeen," he said. "He's keen to go, and I'd be sorry if he wasn't.
Britling in these moods did not perhaps experience the grey and hopeless desolations of the melancholic nor the red damnation of the choleric, but he saw a world that bristled with misfortune and error, with poisonous thorns and traps and swampy places and incurable blunderings. An almost insupportable remorse for being Mr. Britling would pursue him justifying itself upon a hundred counts....
They know for certain you can't arm your troops. They know you can't turn out ten thousand rifles a week. They come and talk to any one in the trains, and explain just how your defeat is going to be managed. It's just as though they were talking of rounding up cattle." Mr. Britling said they would soon be disillusioned. Mr.
The engine began to make a chinking sound, and the car lost pace. And then Mr. Britling saw a pleading little white board with the inscription "Concealed Turning." For the moment he thought a turning might be concealed anywhere. He threw out his clutch and clapped on his brake. Then he repented of what he had done. But the engine, after three Herculean throbs, ceased to work. Mr.
It's Redmond who's obdurate," cried Lady Frensham. "What do you say, Mr. Britling?" "A plague on both your parties," said Mr. Britling.
Britling found himself transferred from the rôle of a mountainous objective for pretty little pilgrims to that of a sedulous lover in pursuit of the happiness of one of the most uncertain, intricate, and entrancing of feminine personalities. This was not at all his idea of the proper relations between men and women, but Mrs. Harrowdean had a way of challenging his gallantry.
There were no more jokes about Letty's pension, and a general avoidance of the topics of high explosives and asphyxiating gas.... Mr. and Mrs. Britling took the young people to the gate. "Good luck!" cried Mr. Britling as they receded. Teddy replied with a wave of the hand. Mr.
"Oh, they won't put a youngster like that in the fighting line," said Mr. Britling. "He's had no training yet. And he has to wear glasses. How can he shoot? They'll make a clerk of him." "He hasn't packed at all," said Mrs. Britling to her husband. "Just come up for an instant and peep at his room. It's touching." It was touching.
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