After dinner they sat about and smoked. George took his chair over to the open window and looked down on the lights and movement of Piccadilly. The noise of the traffic was lulled by the height to a long continuous rumble. The placards of the evening papers along the railings beside the Ritz were sensational and bellicose. The party dropped the subject of a possible great war, after deciding that there wouldn’t be one, there couldn’t. George, who had great faith in Mr. Bobbe’s political acumen, glanced through his last article, and took great comfort from the fact that Bobbe said there wasn’t going to be a war. It was all a scare, a stock-market ramp.... At that moment, three or four people came in, more or less together, though they were in separate parties. One of them was a youngish man in immaculate evening dress. As he shook hands with his host, George heard him say rather excitedly: “I’ve just been dining with Tommy Parkinson of the Foreign Office. He had to leave early and go back to Downing Street. It seems there are Cabinet meetings all the time. Tommy was frightfully depressed and pessimistic about the situation.” “What did he say?” asked three or four eager voices. “He wouldn’t commit himself at all. He was simply very gloomy and _distrait_, and wouldn’t say anything definite.” “Why didn’t you ask him whether Germany is mobilizing?” “I did, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.” “Oh, well, perhaps he only has a liver.” Among the other guests was a tall, very erect, rather sun-burned man of about forty, who had taken no part in the conversation. He was sitting on a couch in silence beside a woman younger than himself—his wife—who was also silent. George heard him introduced to another man as Colonel Thomas. After a few minutes George went over and spoke to him. “My name’s Winterbourne. You’re Colonel Thomas, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “What do you think of the situation we’ve all been discussing so intelligently?” “I don’t think anything. A soldier mustn’t have political ‘views,’ you know.” “Well, but do you think the Germans are mobilizing?” “I don’t know. I believe they are. But that doesn’t mean war necessarily. They may be mobilizing for manœuvres. We’re mobilized for manœuvres on Salisbury Plain.” “Mobilized! The British Army mobilized!” “Only for manœuvres, you know.” “Are you mobilized too?” “Yes, I leave to-morrow morning.” “Good God!” “Oh, it’s only manœuvres. They always happen at this time of the year.” * * * * *