Michael

received his daily report from the establishment where his motherwas, with the invariable message that there was no marked change of anykind, and that it was useless for him to think of coming to see her, hewould go off to Maidstone Crescent and spend the greater part of the daywith the girl.

  Once during this week he had received a note from Hermann, written atMunich, and on the same day she also had heard from him. He had goneback to his regiment, which was mobilised, as a private, and was verybusy with drill and duties. Feeling in Germany, he said, was elated andtriumphant: it was considered certain that England would stand aside, asthe quarrel was none of hers, and the nation generally looked forward toa short and brilliant campaign, with the occupation of Paris to be madein September at the latest. But as a postscript in his note to Sylvia hehad added:

  "You don't think there is the faintest chance of England coming in, doyou? Please write to me fully, and get Mike to write. I have heard fromneither of you, and as I am sure you must have written, I concludethat letters are stopped. I went to the theatre last night: there was atremendous scene of patriotism. The people are war-mad."

  Since then nothing had been heard from him, and to-day, as Michael drovedown to see Sylvia, he saw on the news-boards that Belgium had appealedto England against the violation of her territory by the German armiesen route for France. Overtures had been made, asking for leave to passthrough the neutral territory: these Belgium had rejected. This wasgiven as official news. There came also the report that the Belgianremonstrances would be disregarded. Should she refuse passage to theGerman battalions, that could make no difference, since it was a matterof life and death to invade France by that route.

  Sylvia was out in the garden, where, hardly a month ago, they had spentthat evening of silent peace, and she got up quickly as Michael cameout.

  "Ah, my dear," she said, "I am glad you have come. I have got thehorrors. You saw the latest news? Yes? And have you heard again fromHermann? No, I have not had a word."

  He kissed her and sat down.

  "No, I have not heard either," he said. "I expect he is right. Lettershave been stopped."

  "And what do you think will be the result of Belgium's appeal?" sheasked.

  "Who can tell? The Prime Minister is going to make a statement onMonday. There have been Cabinet meetings going on all day."

  She looked at him in silence.

  "And what do you think?" she asked.

  Quite suddenly, at her question, Michael found himself facing it, evenas, when the final catastrophe was more remote, he had faced it withFalbe. All this week he knew he had been looking away from it, tellinghimself that it was incredible. Now he discovered that the one thinghe dreaded more than that England should go to war, was that sheshould not. The consciousness of national honour, the thing which, withreligion, Englishmen are most shy of speaking about, suddenly asserteditself, and he found on the moment that it was bigger than anything elsein the world.

  "I think we shall go to war," he said. "I don't see personally how wecan exist any more as a nation if we don't. We--we shall be damned if wedon't, damned for ever and ever. It's moral extinction not to."

  She kindled at that.

  "Yes, I know," she said, "that's what I have been telling myself; but,oh, Mike, there's some dreadful cowardly part of me that won't listenwhen I think of Hermann, and . . ."

  She broke off a moment.

  "Michael," she said, "what will you do, if there is war?"

  He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair.

  "My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back tothe army."

  For one moment she gave way.

  "No, no," she said. "You mustn't do that."

  And then suddenly she stopped.

  "My dear, I ask your pardon," she said. "Of course you will. I knowthat really. It's only this stupid cowardly part of me that--thatinterrupted. I am ashamed of it. I'm not as bad as that all through.I don't make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when I think of whatGermany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think what England isto me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, youwill make allowance, won't you? At least I can agree with you utterly,utterly. It's the flesh that's weak, or, rather, that is so strong. ButI've got it under."

  She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes.

  "How I hate girls who cry!" she said. "It is so dreadfully feeble! Look,Mike, there are some roses on that tree from which I plucked the one youdidn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand andmade it bleed."

  He smiled.

  "I have got some faint recollection of it," he said.

  Sylvia had got hold of her courage again.

  "Have you?" she asked. "What a wonderful memory. And that quiet eveningout here next day. Perhaps you remember that too. That was real: thatwas a possession that we shan't ever part with."

  She pointed with her finger.

  "You and I sat there, and Hermann there," she said. "And mothersat--why, there she is. Mother darling, let's have tea out here, shallwe? I will go and tell them."

  Mrs. Falbe had drifted out in her usual thistledown style, and shookhands with Michael.

  "What an upset it all is," she said, "with all these dreadful rumoursgoing about that we shall be at war. I fell asleep, I think, a littleafter lunch, when I could not attend to my book for thinking about war."

  "Isn't the book interesting?" asked Michael.

  "No, not very. It is rather painful. I do not know why people writeabout painful things when there are so many pleasant and interestingthings to write about. It seems to me very morbid."

  Michael heard something cried in the streets, and at the same moment heheard Sylvia's step quickly crossing the studio to the side door thatopened on to it. In a minute she returned with a fresh edition of anevening paper.

  "They are preparing to cross the Rhine," she said.

  Mrs. Falbe gave a little sigh.

  "I don't know, I am sure," she said, "what you are in such a stateabout, Sylvia. Of course the Germans want to get into France the easiestand quickest way, at least I'm sure I should. It is very foolish ofBelgium not to give them leave, as they are so much the strongest."

  "Mother darling, you don't understand one syllable about it," saidSylvia.

  "Very likely not, dear, but I am very glad we are an island, and thatnobody can come marching here. But it is all a dreadful upset, Lord--Imean Michael, what with Hermann in Germany, and the concert tourabandoned. Still, if everything is quiet again by the middle of October,as I daresay it will be, it might come off after all. He will be on thespot, and you and Michael can join him, though I'm not quite sure ifthat would be proper. But we might arrange something: he might meet youat Ostend."

  "I'm afraid it doesn't look very likely," remarked Michael mildly.

  "Oh, and are you pessimistic too, like Sylvia? Pray don't bepessimistic. There is a dreadful pessimist in my book, who always thinksthe worst is going to happen."

  "And does it?" asked Michael.

  "As far as I have got, it does, which makes it all the worse. Of courseI am very anxious about Hermann, but I feel sure he will come backsafe to us. I daresay France will give in when she sees Germany is inearnest."

  Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together. In herheart of hearts she knew she did not care one atom what might happen toarmies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantityof novels to read, and meals at regular hours. The fact of being on anisland was an immense consolation to her, since it was quite certainthat, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for thatmatter) could not march here and enter her sitting-room and take herbooks away from her. For years past she had asked nothing more of theworld than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemednot an unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of moneyall the comfort she wanted could be secured to her. The thought of warhad upset her a good deal already: she had been unable to attend to herb
ook when she awoke from her after-lunch nap; and now, when she hoped tohave her tea in peace, and find her attention restored by it, she foundthe general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting. Shebecame a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talkingherself back into a tranquil frame of mind, and reassuring to herselfthe promise of a peaceful future.

  "Such a blessing we have a good fleet," she said. "That will make ussafe, won't it? I declare I almost hate the Germans, though my dearhusband was one himself, for making such a disturbance. The papers allsay it is Germany's fault, so I suppose it must be. The papersknow better than anybody, don't