R WAR SCARE.

Peter goes to a dame's school in Armadale Gardens, round the corner.

On Tuesdays and Fridays he comes home at twelve, changes into his
football things, and goes off to play soccer till one.

Yesterday, Friday, he came in as usual and, after changing, he put his
head round the door of my study and shouted excitedly,

"Daddy!"

"Well, old chap," I said, "out with it. I'm busy."

"Have you heard? Italy joins Austria. Official."

"Heavens above!" I said. "Official, did you say?"

"Yes," he said. "Can't stop now."

"Hi! Peter," I shouted, "do get me a paper; it won't take you----" But
the banging of the front door cut my appeal short.

I couldn't get a paper myself. I had a cold, and had been ordered to
stay indoors, and I had an article to finish by three o'clock.

"Italy with Austria and Germany," I groaned. "It's monstrous."

I got up, kicked the waste-paper basket over and walked up and down the
room. I knew Peter wouldn't tell a lie. Even for fun he wouldn't say
anything like that if it weren't true.

I called Honor. She was in the drawing-room arranging the flowers. She
came hurriedly with a bunch of them in her hand. I don't know one flower
from one another, but they were big floppy red things.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"Matter? Italy's declared for the enemy," I said. "It's official."

"Is that all?" she said. "I thought at least you couldn't find some of
your writing things."

"What!" I said, "you can stand there with those ridiculous red blobs in
one hand and--and nothing in the other and talk like that."

"They're not blobs," said Honor, "they're peonies. And if that's all
that's the matter I'm busy. I must get my flowers done before lunch."

"Bah!" I said, turning to my table again. "Hang lunch; I can't eat any.
Italy, our staunch friend for years, throws in her lot with Austria, her
hereditary foe, and you talk of lunch."

"It's macaroni cheese," said Honor calmly, "and you know you love it."

"Shade of GARIBALDI! Macaroni! You dare," I said "to mix that miserable
Italian trash with good honest English cheese on such a day, when Italy
is mobilising her millions of soldiers and sailors against us and our
Allies. It's rank sacrilege."

"Don't get excited," said Honor; "besides the cheese is American
Cheddar."

"You trifle with me," I said. "If you send any of the wretched stuff in
here I shall trample on it."

"Aren't you coming in to lunch, then?" she said.

"N