which the United States was destined to play
in the war, and he had now sent for the American Ambassador because he
believed that the President was entitled to a complete explanation of
the momentous decision which Great Britain had just made.

The meeting took place at three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, August
4th--a fateful date in modern history. The time represented the interval
which elapsed between the transmission of the British ultimatum to
Germany and the hour set for the German reply. The place was that same
historic room in the Foreign Office where so many interviews had already
taken place and where so many were to take place in the next four years.
As Page came in, Sir Edward, a tall and worn and rather pallid figure,
was standing against the mantelpiece; he greeted the Ambassador with a
grave handshake and the two men sat down. Overwrought the Foreign
Secretary may have been, after the racking week which had just passed,
but there was nothing flurried or excited in his manner; his whole
bearing was calm and dignified, his speech was quiet and restrained, he
uttered not one bitter word against Germany, but his measured accents
had a sureness, a conviction of the justice of his course, that went
home in almost deadly fashion. He sat in a characteristic pose, his
elbows resting on the sides of his chair, his hands folded and placed
beneath his chin, the whole body leaning forward eagerly and his eyes
searching those of his American friend. The British Foreign Secretary
was a handsome and an inspiring figure. He was a man of large, but of
well knit, robust, and slender frame, wiry and even athletic; he had a
large head, surmounted with dark brown hair, slightly touched with gray;
a finely cut, somewhat rugged and bronzed face, suggestive of that
out-of-door life in which he had always found his greatest pleasure;
light blue eyes that shone with straightforwardness and that on this
occasion were somewhat pensive with anxiety; thin, ascetic lips that
could smile in the most confidential manner or close tightly with
grimness and fixed purpose. He was a man who was at the same time shy
and determined, elusive and definite, but if there was one note in his
bearing that predominated all others, it was a solemn and quiet
sincerity. He seemed utterly without guile and magnificently simple.

Sir Edward at once referred to the German invasion of Belgium.

"The neutrality of Belgium," he said, and there was the touch