"But—and don’t you swipe in, Kittums, for I’m gettin’ to the thrillin’ part—the bigwigs who manage Foreign Affairs weren’t taken in so easily. They knew the bad blood had got to break out somewhere, and it did. Italy and Turkey went to war in November, 1911, and the Balkan Rumpus broke out ten months later. Turkey didn’t win, though her Army has had German instructors ever since von Moltke licked it into shape in 1835, and Germany’d naturally expected her to finish as top-dog. So the concessions Germany wanted from Turkey were lost. I rather think the Prussian Eagle had its eye on Adrianople on the Black Sea coast, and the Gallipoli Peninsula, for the furtherin’ of her views on the Near East—and Austria had a fancy for the Sanjak of Novibazar—and wanted Salonika as a base for operations on the Mediterranean. Anyhow, both of ’em were wiped on the jaw. And William the All Too Knowing, as Courtley calls him—Courtley’s going in strong for Nietzsche just now—says his works are a slogging attack on Teutonism!—William has got to the end of his patience. The shining armour’s been hanging up all these years, getting too tight for an Emperor inclined to run to tummy. The shining sword was getting rusty in its regulation sheath. And then in the nick of time—happens the Affair of Sarajevo. The news came through that Sunday in Paris. I remember how Spitz’s Restaurant boiled over, and the people were shouting ’Sarajevo’ on the boulevards. By George! I forgot you were in bed and asleep while we were dining." Margot, between waking and sleeping, had got some inkling of the tragedy of that night. She asked, as Franky took off his hat and proceeded to mop his non-intellectual forehead: "And is Sarajevo likely to stop me from going to Berlin?" Franky left off mopping and said, looking at her squarely: "If Austria’s Note to Serbia is—what the Kaiser would like it to be—you may take it we’re on the giddy verge of a General All-Round Scrap." "You mean—a war?" "I mean _the_ War that’ll dwarf all others by comparison. The War of Nations, that the prophet wrote of in Revelations. Armageddon.... The Last Battle. The Big Bust Up that comes before the end." "Darling old boy, what rot!" "Rot if you like. You wait and see what happens. D’you pipe me tipping you the gag Asquithian?" He grinned at the idea. "Franky, you’ve set me asking myself something." "Why you’ve married an idiot? ... Is that it?" He turned upon her a rueful face from which the grin had been wiped away. Margot said, as the car turned smoothly into Short Street and stopped before the Club portico: "No, but—How is it you know—all the things you know, when I’ve always known you knew nothing about anything?" He shook his head. "Give it up! ... No, I don’t! The answer is—I’m one of those fellows—and the Services are simply stiff with ’em, who are absolute asses till it’s necessary for ’em to be something else." *CHAPTER XXIII*