"Good books?" she said, looking at the ceiling. "You must remember," she began, speaking with extreme rapidity, "that fiction is the mirror of life. And you can't deny that education is of the highest importance, and that it would be extremely annoying, if you found yourself alone at Brighton late at night, not to know which was the best boarding house to stay at, and suppose it was a dripping Sunday evening--wouldn't it be nice to go to the Movies?" "But what has that got to do with it?" we asked. "Nothing--nothing--nothing whatever," she replied. "Well, tell us the truth," we bade her. "The truth? But isn't it wonderful," she broke off--"Mr. Chitter has written a weekly article for the past thirty years upon love or hot buttered toast and has sent all his sons to Eton----" "The truth!" we demanded. "Oh, the truth," she stammered, "the truth has nothing to do with literature," and sitting down she refused to say another word. It all seemed to us very inconclusive. "Ladies, we must try to sum up the results," Jane was beginning, when a hum, which had been heard for some time through the open window, drowned her voice. "War! War! War! Declaration of War!" men were shouting in the street below. We looked at each other in horror. "What war?" we cried. "What war?" We remembered, too late, that we had never thought of sending anyone to the House of Commons. We had forgotten all about it. We turned to Poll, who had reached the history shelves in the London Library, and asked her to enlighten us. "Why," we cried, "do men go to war?" "Sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another," she replied calmly. "In 1760, for example----" The shouts outside drowned her words. "Again in 1797--in 1804--It was the Austrians in 1866--1870 was the Franco-Prussian--In 1900 on the other hand----" "But it's now 1914!" we cut her short. "Ah, I don't know what they're going to war for now," she admitted. * * * * *