Dr. Joliffe was gloomy. All the way home he confined himself to polite monosyllables, and kept his eyes glued to the steering wheel of the car. Hitherto he had not had occasion to question the sanity of John Smith, whom he had always regarded as a particularly harmless creature. And even if the vicar had reported the man correctly, Dr. Joliffe was by no means clear that Mr. Perry-Hennington was not taking an extreme view of his duty. The vicar, however, had not a doubt in the matter. A sermon unprepared still cast its shadow over him, but a cloud had lifted from his mind. A sanguine man endowed with great animal energy, he never questioned the logic of his own views, the soundness of his judgment, or the absolute rectitude of his conduct. It was in the interests of the community that John Smith should be taken care of. It even gave the vicar a certain satisfaction that his duty in a most disagreeable matter should now stand out so clearly before him. Mr. Perry-Hennington had only just time to drink a cup of tea at the vicarage before he was off on his travels again. This time his objective was Grayfield, a feudal sort of hamlet over on the Sussex side. He had to speak at a recruiting meeting, arranged by his old Magdalen friend Whymper, with whom a distinguished member of parliament was spending the weekend. Edith accompanied her father in the gig; and they had been invited to dine at the manor after the meeting. Grayfield was a good hour for old Alice, upon whom Anno Domini had set an unmistakable seal. But it was a rare evening for a drive. The sweet, clean air of the Sussex uplands was like a mellow wine; the road was straight and firm; the sun of June still lingered over Ashdown; trees and hedges wore a sheen of glory, with a trim farm or a cowled oasthouse nestling here and there. This calm and quiet land with its mathematically parceled acres, its placid cows and horses looking over five-barred gates to watch the stately progress of old Alice, its occasional forelock-pulling rustic, was like a “set” in a theater. The whole scene was so snug, so perfect, so ordained, that nature appeared to have very little part to play in it. “Odd to think that Armageddon is _here_,” said the vicar. Edith thought it was, very. The vicar gave a shake of the reins to encourage old Alice. And then he said: “It’s my firm belief that there are people on this countryside who don’t realize it even yet.” “I’m sure there are,” said Edith. “It will be brought home to every man, every woman, every child in the land before we are through with it.” “You think so?” said Edith, in the curious, precise voice she had inherited from the Henningtons. “Personally I am not so sure. We are much too secure here. I sometimes think that an invasion would be the best thing that could happen to us.”