“It looks all right,” said Honor, picking up the paper. “Let’s see the cricket. Old No’s aching to hear. Hm--hm--hm--Kent beat Middlesex at Maidstone,--Blythe and Woolley’s fine bowling,--Surrey leads for championship. That’s all right. Hello, what’s all this?--‘Servia challenged. King Peter’s appeal to the Tsar. Grave decisions impending. The risk to Europe.’ I--_say_! Is there going to be another war? How ripping!” “Honor!” said her mother reprovingly. “Well, I don’t mean that, of course. But a war does make lively papers, doesn’t it? I’m sick of Ireland and suffragettes.” “If this war comes you’ll be sicker of it than of anything you ever experienced, before it’s over, my dear,” said Mr Dare gravely. “Why?--Austria and Servia?” “And Russia and Germany and France and Italy and possibly England.” “My Goodness! You don’t mean it, Dad?” and she eyed him keenly. “I believe you’re just--er--pulling my leg, as old No would say?” and she plunged again into the paper. “Bitter fact, I fear, my dear.” “How about Lois? Will she be in the thick of it?” she asked, raising her head for a moment to stare meditatively at him, with the larger part of her mind still busy with the news. “We were just thinking of her. I’m inclined to wire her to come home at once.” Then Noel strolled in with a nonchalant, “Morning everybody!... Say, Nor! What about the cricket? You promised----” “Cricket’s off, my son,” said Honor, reading on. “It’s war and a case of fighting for our lives maybe.” “Oh, come off!”--then, noticing the serious faces of the elders,--“Not really? Who with?” “Everybody,” said Honor. “--Armageddon!” He went round to her and pored eagerly over the paper with his head alongside hers. They were twins and closely knit by many little similarities of thought and taste and feeling. “Well!... I’ll--be--bowled!” as he gradually assimilated the news. “Do you really think it’ll come to a general scrap?”--to his father. “Those who have better means of judging than I have evidently fear it, my boy. I shall learn more in the City no doubt,” and he hurried on with his breakfast. The front-door bell shrilled sharply. “Post!” said Honor. “Must be something big,” and dashed away to get it. She never could wait for the maid’s leisurely progress when letters were in question, and she and the postman were on the best of terms. He always grinned when she came whirling to the door. “Why--Colonel!” they heard her surprised greeting. “And Ray! You _are_ early birds. I thought you were the post. What worms are you after now? Is it the War?”--as she ushered them into the drawing-room. “Bull’s-eye first shot,” said a stentorian voice. “Has your father gone yet, Honor?” “Just finishing his breakfast, Colonel. I’ll tell him,” and as she turned to go, her father came in. “How are you, Colonel?” said Mr Dare. “Good morning, Ray! What are our prospects of keeping out of it, do you think?”