He got up and moved, restless, into the hall. All there was of connoisseur in the club was gathered round the tape—some half-dozen members, none of whom he knew. Soames stood a little apart. Somebody turned and spoke to him. A shrinking from his fellows, accentuated in Soames’ emotional moments, sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t stay here and have chaps babbling. Answering curtly, he got his hat and went out. In the crowd he’d be alone, and he moved with it down Pall Mall towards Whitehall. Thicker every moment, it was a curious blend of stillness and excitement. Down Cockspur Street into Whitehall he was slowly swept, till at the mouth of Downing Street the crowd became solidity itself, and there was no moving. Ten minutes to the hour! Impervious by nature and by training to mob-emotion, Soames yet was emotionalised. Here was something that was not mere mob-sensation—something made up of individual feelings stronger than mere impulse; something to which noise was but embroidery. There was plenty of noise, rumorous, and strident now and again, but it didn’t seem to belong to the faces—didn’t seem to suit them any more than it suited the stars that winked and waited. All sorts and conditions of men and women, and he cheek by jowl with them—like sardines in a box—and he didn’t mind. Civilians, they were, peaceful folk—not a soldier or a sailor in the lot! They had begun to sing ‘God save the King!’ His own lips moved; he could not hear himself, and that consoled him. He fixed his eyes on Big Ben. The hands of the bright clock, halfway to the stars, crept with incredible slowness. Two minutes more and the thing would begin—the Thing! What would come of it? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. A bad business, a mad business—once in, you couldn’t get out—you had to hold on—to the death—to the death! The faces were all turned one way now under the street lights, white faces, from whose open mouths still came that song; and then—Boom! The clock had struck, and cheering rose. Queer thing to cheer for! “Hoora-a-ay!” The Thing had started!…

Soames walked away. Had he cheered? He did not seem to know. A little ashamed he walked. Why couldn’t he have waited down there on the river, instead of rushing up into the crowd like one of these young clerks or shop fellows? He was glad nobody would know where he had been. As if it did any good for him to get excited; as if it did any good for him to do or get anything at his age. Sixty! He was glad he hadn’t got a son. Bad enough to have three nephews. Still, Val was in South Africa and his leg wasn’t sound; but Winifred’s second son, Benedict—what age was he—thirty? Then there was Cicely’s boy—just gone up to Cambridge. All these boys! Some of them would be rushing off to get themselves killed. A bad sad business! And all because—! Exactly! Because of what?

Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.

“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”

“Relief! Pretty relief!”

“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”

“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over—the Germans are no joke.”

“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”

“They’d say anything,” said Soames.

“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”

“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”

Winifred looked up sharply.

“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”

“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.

“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”

“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”

Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:

“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”

“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too—I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”

“Ought one to lay in provisions?”

“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.

He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.

“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”

“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.

“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”

“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”

The gardener looked surprised.

“I thought—”

“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”

“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”

“I do,” said Soames.

“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.

“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”

She came across to him.

“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”

“What for?” said Soames.

Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.

“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”

“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”

“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”

“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.

Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.

“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fräulein, she must go.”

“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”

“To have a German in the house? No!”

“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”

“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”

“Stuff and nonsense!”

“Oh! you English are so slow—you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”

“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.

“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”

“Let them!”

“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme à la guerre!’”