expeditionary force was to be sent to France, to helpin arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; butno public and authoritative news came till after the first draft of theforce had actually set foot on French soil. From the regiment of theGuards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch ofofficers to go, and that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia.Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women violated, ofdefenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise,and to bring home to the Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross thewill of the sovereign people. To-night, in the evening papers, there hadbeen a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael enteredthe studio where Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl letdrop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading. He guessed what shemust have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, andher silence, her distraction, and the misery of her face confirmed hisconjecture.
"I've brought you a little news to-night," he said. "The first draftfrom the regiment went off to-day."
Mrs. Falbe put down her book, marking the place.
"Well, that does look like business, then," she said, "though I must sayI should feel safer if they didn't send our soldiers away. Where havethey gone to?"
"Destination unknown," said Michael. "But it's France. My cousin hasgone."
"Francis?" asked Sylvia. "Oh, how wicked to send boys like that."
Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge. She had given him nogreeting, and now as he sat down she moved a little away from him. Sheseemed utterly unlike herself.
"Mother has been told that every Englishman is as brave as two Germans,"she said. "She likes that."
"Yes, dear," observed Mrs. Falbe placidly. "It makes one feel safer. Isaw it in the paper, though; I read it."
Sylvia turned on Michael.
"Have you seen the evening paper?" she asked.
Michael knew what was in her mind.
"I just looked at it," he said. "There didn't seem to be much news."
"No, only reports, rumours, lies," said Sylvia.
Mrs. Falbe got up. It was her habit to leave the two alone together,since she was sure they preferred that; incidentally, also, she got onbetter with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting. Butto-night Sylvia stopped her.
"Oh, don't go yet, mother," she said. "It is very early."
It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone withMichael, for never had she done this before. Nor did it avail anythingnow, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her readingwithout delay, moved towards the door.
"But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear," she said, "and youhave not seen him all day. I think I shall go up to bed."
Sylvia made no further effort to detain her, but when she had gone, thesilence in which they had so often sat together had taken on a perfectlydifferent quality.
"And what have you been doing?" she said. "Tell me about your day. No,don't. I know it has all been concerned with war, and I don't want tohear about it."
"I dined with Aunt Barbara," said Michael. "She sent you her love. Shealso wondered why you hadn't been to see her for so long."
Sylvia gave a short laugh, which had no touch of merriment in it.
"Did she really?" she asked. "I should have thought she could haveguessed. She set every nerve in my body jangling last time I saw her bythe way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herselfup and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse!Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is even more intolerable thanunkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people thansaying how sorry she is for me. Don't let's talk about it! Let's dosomething. Will you play, or shall I sing? Let's employ ourselves."
Michael followed her lead.
"Ah, do sing," he said. "It's weeks since I have heard you sing."
She went quickly over to the bookcase of music by the piano.
"Come, then, let's sing and forget," she said. "Hermann always said theartist was of no nationality. Let's begin quick. These are all Germansongs: don't let's have those. Ah, and these, too! What's to be done?All our songs seem to be German."
Michael laughed.
"But we've just settled that artists have no nationality, so I supposeart hasn't either," he said.
Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laidher hand on Michael's shoulder.
"Oh, Michael, what should I do without you?" she said. "And yet--well,let me sing."
She had placed a volume of Schubert on the music-stand, and opening itat random he found "Du Bist die Ruhe." She sang the first verse, but inthe middle of the second she stopped.
"I can't," she said. "It's no use."
He turned round to her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said. "But you know that."
She moved away from him, and walked down to the empty fireplace.
"I can't keep silence," she said, "though I know we settled not to talkof those things when necessarily we cannot feel absolutely at one. But,just before you came in, I was reading the evening paper. Michael, howcan the English be so wicked as to print, and I suppose to believe,those awful things I find there? You told me you had glanced at it.Well, did you glance at the lies they tell about German atrocities?"
"Yes, I saw them," said Michael. "But it's no use talking about them."
"But aren't you indignant?" she said. "Doesn't your blood boil to readof such infamous falsehoods? You don't know Germans, but I do, and it isimpossible that such things can have happened."
Michael felt profoundly uncomfortable. Some of these stories whichSylvia called lies were vouched for, apparently, by respectabletestimony.
"Why talk about them?" he said. "I'm sure we were wise when we settlednot to."
She shook her head.
"Well, I can't live up to that wisdom," she said. "When I think of thiswar day and night and night and day, how can I prevent talking toyou about it? And those lies! Germans couldn't do such things. It's acampaign of hate against us, set up by the English Press."
"I daresay the German Press is no better," said Michael.
"If that is so, I should be just as indignant about the German Press,"said she. "But it is only your guess that it is so."
Suddenly she stopped, and came a couple of steps nearer him.
"Michael, it isn't possible that you believe those things of us?" shesaid.
He got up.
"Ah, do leave it alone, Sylvia," he said. "I know no more of the truthor falsity of it than you. I have seen just what you have seen in thepapers."
"You don't feel the impossibility of it, then?" she asked.
"No, I don't. There seems to have been sworn testimony. War is a cruelthing; I hate it as much as you. When men are maddened with war, youcan't tell what they would do. They are not the Germans you know, northe Germans I know, who did such things--not the people I saw when Iwas with Hermann in Baireuth and Munich a year ago. They are no more thesame than a drunken man is the same as that man when he is sober. Theyare two different people; drink has made them different. And war hasdone the same for Germany."
He held out his hand to her. She moved a step back from him.
"Then you think, I suppose, that Hermann may be concerned in thoseatrocities," she said.
Michael looked at her in amazement.
"You are talking sheer nonsense, Sylvia," he said.
"Not at all. It is a logical inference, just an application of theprinciple you have stated."
Michael's instinct was just to take her in his arms and make thefinal appeal, saying, "We love each other, that's all," but his reasonprevented him. Sylvia had said a monstrous thing in cold blood, when shesuggested that he thought Hermann might be concerned in these deeds, andin cold blood, not by appealing to her emotions, must she withdraw that.
"I'm not going to argue about it," he said. "I want you to tell me atonce that I am right, that it was sheer nonsense,
to put no other nameto it, when you suggested that I thought that of Hermann."
"Oh, pray put another name to it," she said.
"Very well. It was a wanton falsehood," said Michael, "and you know it."
Truly this hellish nightmare of war and hate which had arisen broughtwith it a brood not less terrible. A day ago, an hour ago he would havemerely laughed at the possibility of such a situation between Sylvia andhimself. Yet here it was: they were in the