The rest of the world had looked on also, but apparently,
merely in the casual way which good-naturedly smiles and leaves to
every man--even an emperor--the privilege of his own eccentricities.
Coombe had looked on with a difference, so also had his friend by
her fireside. This man's square of the Chessboard had long been
the subject of their private talks and a cause for the drawing
towards them of the green atlas. The moves he made, the methods
of his ruling, the significance of these methods were the evidence
they collected in their frequent arguments. Coombe had early begun
to see the whole thing as a process--a life-long labour which was
a means to a monstrous end.
There was a certain thing he believed of which they often spoke
as "It". He spoke of it now.
"Through three weeks I have been marking how It grows," he said; "a
whole nation with the entire power of its commerce, its education,
its science, its religion, guided towards one aim is a curious
study. The very babes are born and bred and taught only that
one thought may become an integral part of their being. The most
innocent and blue eyed of them knows, without a shadow of doubt,
that the world has but one reason for existence--that it may be
conquered and ravaged by the country that gave them birth."
"I have both heard and seen it," she said. "One has smiled in
spite of oneself, in listening to their simple, everyday talk.
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