"Surely, surely!" her father said. "The rumour was only a little in advance. It must come to war; there is no possible alternative. We have gone too far to draw back. But there is the squire, and Miles with him. Probably they are bringing the news." He went to the French window and threw it open, so that the new-comers could come in straight from the garden. Nora hung back, though her pulses were beating with excitement. The news that the declaration had been a false alarm, picked up with a reckless haste by Miles—perhaps for his own reasons—had not shaken her from her purpose. Arnold had assured her that it was only a question of hours before the rumour became truth, and she had believed him. But there had been a strange delay, a strange hush; there had been a talk of "negotiations," and it had made her afraid. She did not know of what she was afraid—whether it was of the war or of peace. She only knew that the uncertainty was unbearable. As she saw the squire, she knew that, one way or the other, the die was cast. Fury and indignation were written on every feature of the big, clean-shaven face; the small eyes, sunken under the bushy brows, glistened like two dangerous points of fire; the lips were compressed till they were almost colourless. For a moment he stood in the narrow doorway, his huge shoulders spreading from side to side, glaring into the room as though he sought his deadliest enemy. Then, as he saw the unspoken question with which the occupants greeted him, he nodded and, entering, flung his riding-crop on to the table with a loud, ringing curse. The Rev. John glanced anxiously at the ceiling, as though he thought his wife might have heard, and the squire, catching the movement, hastened to apologise. "’Pon my word, I didn’t mean to make such an infernal row," he said. "If I hadn’t done something of the sort I should have had a fit. It’s enough to send a man down into his grave with disgust. It’s enough to make a man shake the dust off his boots and—and——" He stopped, stuttering with passion, and the Rev. John turned involuntarily to Miles, who had followed the squire into the room and was standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing sulkily at the floor. "We’ve thrown up the sponge," he said, as though he knew he had been appealed to. "We’ve eaten humble pie, and the war’s off. That’s all." "Yes, that’s all!" the squire burst out. "An English Fashoda—that’s all! We’re the laughing-stock of Europe with our threats and demands, and then this d——d surrender. They call it a compromise. It’s not what I call it. We’ve just licked their dirty boots—and I’d like to see every man-jack of the Government hanged and quartered!" He was almost unintelligible in his fury, and the Rev. John made a mild gesture of protest. "As a man of peace, I must rejoice," he said.