Paris to be made
in September at the latest. But as a postscript in his note to Sylvia he
had added:

"You don't think there is the faintest chance of England coming in, do
you? Please write to me fully, and get Mike to write. I have heard from
neither of you, and as I am sure you must have written, I conclude
that letters are stopped. I went to the theatre last night: there was a
tremendous scene of patriotism. The people are war-mad."

Since then nothing had been heard from him, and to-day, as Michael drove
down to see Sylvia, he saw on the news-boards that Belgium had appealed
to England against the violation of her territory by the German armies
en route for France. Overtures had been made, asking for leave to pass
through the neutral territory: these Belgium had rejected. This was
given as official news. There came also the report that the Belgian
remonstrances would be disregarded. Should she refuse passage to the
German battalions, that could make no difference, since it was a matter
of life and death to invade France by that route.

Sylvia was out in the garden, where, hardly a month ago, they had spent
that evening of silent peace, and she got up quickly as Michael came
out.

"Ah, my dear," she said, "I am glad you have come. I have got the
horrors. You saw the latest news? Yes? And have you heard again from
Hermann? No, I have not had a word."

He kissed her and sat down.

"No, I have not heard either," he said. "I expect he is right. Letters
have been stopped."

"And what do you think will be the result of Belgium's appeal?" she
asked.

"Who can tell? The Prime Minister is going to make a statement on
Monday. There have been Cabinet meetings going on all day."

She looked at him in silence.

"And what do you think?" she asked.

Quite suddenly, at her question, Michael found himself facing it, even
as, when the final catastrophe was more remote, he had faced it with
Falbe. All this week he knew he had been looking away from it, telling
himself that it was incredible. Now he discovered that the one thing
he dreaded more than that England should go to war, was that she
should not. The consciousness of national honour, the thing which, with
religion, Englishmen are most shy of speaking about, suddenly asserted
itself, and he found on the moment that it was bigger than anything else
in the world.

"I think we shall go to war," he said. "I don't see personally how we
can exist any more as a nat