All the same, he was not quite reassured, and on the way home left an order with a local news agent for the delivery of a daily paper until further notice. He hoped the next morning’s news would be better. It wasn’t. Neither was the next day’s. Then came the news that Russia was mobilizing, and that the Grand Fleet had sailed from Spithead “on manœuvres,” but under sealed orders. George remembered the coastguard officer who got drunk, and let slip that he had sealed orders in case of war. Perhaps the man would be opening those orders in a few days, perhaps he had already opened them. He tried to paint, and couldn’t; picked up a book, and found himself thinking: Austria, Russia, Germany, France, England, perhaps—good God, it’s impossible, impossible. He fidgeted about, and then went into Elizabeth’s room. She was delicately painting a large blue bowl of variegated summer flowers. The room was very quiet. One of the windows was opened on to a large communal garden surrounded by the backs of houses. A wasp came in through the striped orange and black curtain and buzzed towards a bunch of grapes on a large Spanish plate. “What is it, George?” The room was so peaceful, so secure, Elizabeth so unperturbed and as usual, that George felt half-surprised at his own agitation. “I’m worried about this war situation.” “Really, George! What _is_ the good of getting into such a fuss? You know Reggie told you there was nothing in it, and he hears all the latest news at Cambridge.” “Yes, darling, but it isn’t a matter of Cambridge now, but of Europe. The Tsar and the Kaiser won’t consult the Dons before launching a war.” Elizabeth, rather annoyed, went on painting. “Well,” she said through the brush between her teeth, “I can’t help it. Anyway it won’t concern us.” It won’t concern us! George stood irresolute a moment. “I think I’ll go out and see what’s the latest news.” “Yes, do. I’m dining with Reggie to-night.” “All right.” * * * * * George spent the first few days of August wandering about London, taking busses, and buying innumerable editions of newspapers. London seemed perfectly calm and as usual, and yet there was something feverish about it. Perhaps it was George’s own feverishness exteriorized, perhaps it was the unwonted number of special editions with shouting newsboys in unusual places, handing out copies as fast as they could to little groups of impatient people. His memories of those days were confused and he couldn’t remember the chronological order of events. Two or three scenes stood out vividly in his mind—all the rest became a blur, the outlines obliterated by more dreadful scenes.