cular kind of fever. Every one of us,
down to the Youngster, had fixed ideas, deep-set theories, and
convictions as different as our characters, our lives, our callings,
and our faiths. We were all Cosmopolitan Americans, but ready to
spread the Eagle, if necessary, and all of us, except the Violinist,
of New England extraction, which means really of English blood, and
that _will_ show when the screws are put on. We had never thought of
the Violinist as not one of us, but he was really of Polish origin.
His great-grandfather had been a companion of Adam Czartoriski in the
uprising of 1830, and had gone to the States when the amnesty was not
extended to his chief after that rebellion, Poland's last, had been
stamped out.

As well as I can remember it was the night of August 6th that the
first serious dispute arose. England had declared war. All our male
servants had left us except two American chauffeurs, and a couple of
old outside men. Two of our four cars, and all our horses but one had
been requisitioned. That did not upset us. We had taken on the wives
of some of the men, among them Angele, the pretty wife of one of the
French chauffeurs, and her two-months-old baby into the bargain. We
still had two cars, that, at a pinch, would carry the party, and we
still had one mount in case of necessity.

The question arose as to whether we should break up and make for the
nearest port while we could, or "stick it out." It had been finally
agreed not to evacuate--_yet_. One does not often get such a chance to
see a country at war, and we were all ardent spectators, and all
unattached. I imagine not one of us had at that time any idea of
being useful--the stupendousness of it all had not dawned on any of
us--unless it was the Doctor.

But after the decision of "stick" had been passed unanimously, the
Critic, who was a bit of a sentimentalist, and if he were anything
else was a Norman Angel-lite, stuck his hands in his pockets, and
remarked: "After all, it is perfectly safe to stay, especially now
that England is coming in."

"You think so?" said the Doctor.

"Sure," smiled the Critic. "The Germans will never cross the French
frontier this time. This is not 1870."

"Won't they, and isn't it?" replied the Doctor sharply.

"They never can get by Verdun and Belfort."

"Never said they could," remarked the Doctor, with a tone as near to a
sneer as a good-natured host can allow himself. "But they'll invade
fast enough. I