on the whole he had displayed rather a
brutal character was combated by Herr Heinrich, who held that a certain
brusqueness was Billy's only fault, and told anecdotes, almost sacred
anecdotes, of the little creature's tenderer, nobler side. "When I feed
him always he says, 'Thank you,'" said Herr Heinrich. "He never fails."
He betrayed darker thoughts. "When I went round by the barn there was a
cat that sat and looked at me out of a laurel bush," he said. "I do not
like cats."

Mr. Lawrence Carmine, who had dropped in, was suddenly reminded of that
lugubrious old ballad, "The Mistletoe Bough," and recited large worn
fragments of it impressively. It tells of how a beautiful girl hid away
in a chest during a Christmas game of hide-and-seek, and how she was
found, a dried vestige, years afterwards. It took a very powerful hold
upon Herr Heinrich's imagination. "Let us now," he said, "make an
examination of every box and cupboard and drawer. Marking each as we
go...."

When Mr. Britling went to bed that night, after a long gossip with
Carmine about the Bramo Samaj and modern developments of Indian thought
generally, the squirrel was still undiscovered.

The worthy modern thinker undressed slowly, blew out his candle and got
into bed. Still meditating deeply upon the God of the Tagores, he thrust
his right hand under his pillow according to his usual practice, and
encountered something soft and warm and active. He shot out of bed
convulsively, lit his candle, and lifted his pillow discreetly.

He discovered the missing Billy looking crumpled and annoyed.

For some moments there was a lively struggle before Billy was gripped.
He chattered furiously and bit Mr. Britling twice. Then Mr. Britling was
out in the passage with the wriggling lump of warm fur in his hand, and
paddling along in the darkness to the door of Herr Heinrich. He opened
it softly.

A startled white figure sat up in bed sharply.

"Billy," said Mr. Britling by way of explanation, dropped his capture on
the carpet, and shut the door on the touching reunion.

Section 3

A day was to come when Mr. Britling was to go over the history of that
sunny July with incredulous minuteness, trying to trace the real
succession of events that led from the startling crime at Sarajevo to
Europe's last swift rush into war. In a sense it was untraceable; in a
sense it was so obvious that he was amazed the whole world had not
watched the coming of disaster. The plain f