Pandemonium broke loose—a tornado of sound—horns, whistles, rowing-rattles, bugles—men shouting—women screaming. The five in the Crossley couldn’t hear pandemonium. They were of pandemonium—crazy. Brigadier General the Weasel, palms to mouth, straddling the radiator with spurred legs, beating bonnet with his cane, was hallooing like a lunatic: “Forrard away!” hallooed the Weasel. “Forrard away! Forrard away! Hi, tear ’em, tear ’em, tear ’em.” Francis, scarlet in the face, bolt upright, lameness forgotten, bawled an inarticulate “Eton! Well rowed, Eton.” Peter, finger pressed home on the hoarsely-shrieking Klaxon, was howling some Indian war-whoop of his own. Patricia, dumb with emotion, imagined herself to be cheering. And Beatrice, the hyper-critical, hyper-sensitive Beatrice, was yelling, yelling at the top of her voice. “Ya, ya, ya, ya, ya,” yelled Beatrice—but somehow or other she couldn’t finish the yell; dropped back, speechless, in the tonneau. . . . Pandemonium! Traffic had stopped. There was no traffic: only motionless vehicles—lorries, motor-omnibuses, taxis, a Rolls-Royce, a hansom-cab—yes, a veritable hansom cab. And every vehicle swarmed with men and women. Men and women swarmed on every vehicle. Swarmed and shrieked and waved flags. . . . Pandemonium! The very houses had gone mad. The houses were alive—alive with men and women. The houses were wide open. Men and women poured out of the houses into the streets. The streets were alive with men and women. They swarmed in the streets; swarmed and danced and cheered and shouted and waved flags. . . . Pandemonium! The flags had gone mad. There were a million flags—Union Jacks and Stars-and-Stripes, Tricolour flags and Belgian flags and Japanese flags; Italian flags and Portuguese flags, Commonwealth flags and Dominion flags, Royal Standards and White Ensigns. . . . Pandemonium! Everybody was moving—vehicles were moving—people were moving—flags were moving. Their own flags—Union Jack with Old Glory—were moving. The Crossley was moving. . . . “Forrard away,” hallooed Brigadier General the Weasel, still astride the radiator. “Forrard away, sir,” Peter howled back from the driving seat. . . . Pandemonium! Everybody was dancing. The flags were dancing. Men and women on the sidewalk were dancing. Soldiers were dancing—English soldiers and American soldiers, French soldiers and Belgian soldiers, Portuguese and Japanese and Italian soldiers—lame soldiers and legless soldiers and armless soldiers—ill soldiers and well soldiers. Sailors were dancing—English sailors and American sailors, French sailors and Italian sailors and Japanese sailors. The very houses were dancing: floods of white paper came dancing down out of the dancing houses. Their own car was dancing: her cushions were dancing: they could feel her engine dancing. They themselves were dancing: they could feel their hearts dancing inside them: the blood was dancing in their veins, dancing and dancing. . . .