As a matter of truth, he had been looking forward during the last two years to "after the war." ... That was the time when he was going to start again. Get this war behind one and he would break out in an entirely new place--"begin all over again"--show all those young fellows that all their so-called modernity was nothing but a new trick or two for covering up the same old thing. He could do it as well as they. Write in suspensive dots and dashes, mention all the parts of the human body in full, count every tick of the clock, and call your book "Disintegration," or "Dead Moons," or "Green Queens."
Robsart liked himself in these moods, and during luncheon he amiably wandered along in this direction, plucking the flowers of his wit as he went and flinging them into Westcott's lap.
Peter grew ever more and more silent. He hated Robsart. That ghastly preoccupation with his own little affairs, the self-patting and self-applause over the little successes that he had won, above all, that blending of all the horror and tragedy of that great nightmare of a war to fit into the pattern of that mean, self-gratifying little life--these things were horrible. But, strangely, with the ever-growing disgust of Robsart and his slightly disturbed self-complacency came an evil longing in Peter's breast for some of the comfort and luxury that Robsart's life represented. Ever since that day, now so many years ago, when his wife had run away with his best friend, he had known, it seemed, no peace, no quiet, no tranquillity. It was not security that he needed, but rather a pause in the battle of the spiritual elements that seemed to be for ever beating at his ears and driving him staggering from post to post. Had it not been for the war he had often thought, he must have succumbed before now. Final defeat, at any rate, meant rest. He had not succumbed. These years in Gallipoli and France had saved him. But he, in those desolate, death-ridden places had again and again said to himself, even as Robsart, safe in Hortons, had said: "After the war.... After the war...." After the war Peter would build up his life again. But first, even a month's rest--somewhere that was not dirty and cheap and ill-smelling. Somewhere with good food and kind looks.... Then he smiled as he thought of Maradick and Galleon, his two friends, who could both give him those things. No, he wanted also freedom.