He returned to his desk stirring the lemon in his glass of tea. He would write the plain common sense of this Irish situation. He would put things so plainly that this squabbling folly would _have_ to cease. It should be done austerely, with a sort of ironical directness. There should be no abuse, no bitterness, only a deep passion of sanity. What is the good of grieving over a smashed automobile? He sipped his tea and made a few notes on his writing pad. His face in the light of his shaded reading lamp had lost its distraught expression, his hand fingered his familiar fountain pen.... Section 8 The next morning Mr. Britling came into Mr. Direck's room. He was pink from his morning bath, he was wearing a cheerful green-and-blue silk dressing gown, he had shaved already, he showed no trace of his nocturnal vigil. In the bathroom he had whistled like a bird. "Had a good night?" he said. "That's famous. So did I. And the wrist and arm didn't even ache enough to keep you awake?" "I thought I heard you talking and walking about," said Mr. Direck. "I got up for a little bit and worked. I often do that. I hope I didn't disturb you. Just for an hour or so. It's so delightfully quiet in the night...." He went to the window and blinked at the garden outside. His two younger sons appeared on their bicycles returning from some early expedition. He waved a hand of greeting. It was one of those summer mornings when attenuated mist seems to fill the very air with sunshine dust. "This is the sunniest morning bedroom in the house," he said. "It's south-east." The sunlight slashed into the masses of the blue cedar outside with a score of golden spears. "The Dayspring from on High," he said.... "I thought of rather a useful pamphlet in the night. "I've been thinking about your luggage at that hotel," he went on, turning to his guest again. "You'll have to write and get it packed up and sent down here-- "No," he said, "we won't let you go until you can hit out with that arm and fell a man. Listen!" Mr. Direck could not distinguish any definite sound. "The smell of frying rashers, I mean," said Mr. Britling. "It's the clarion of the morn in every proper English home.... "You'd like a rasher, coffee? "It's good to work in the night, and it's good to wake in the morning," said Mr. Britling, rubbing his hands together. "I suppose I wrote nearly two thousand words. So quiet one is, so concentrated. And as soon as I have had my breakfast I shall go on with it again." CHAPTER THE FIFTH THE COMING OF THE DAY Section 1 It was quite characteristic of the state of mind of England in the summer of 1914 that Mr. Britling should be mightily concerned about the conflict in Ireland, and almost deliberately negligent of the possibility of a war with Germany.