That night Potter took train for the capital. He discovered on his way that the American people had already declared war. They were outraged. The formality of a declaration remained, but the people had made up their minds. They saw what they had to do, but did not realize the magnitude of it. In the club car was no other subject of conversation but Zimmerman and his plottings. Throughout the conversation ran a peculiar note of pity for the German--for his intelligence, for the blindness of his psychology. "It was the one thing they could do," an elderly gentleman said, "to solidify the country. They picked the way as if they were working for us.... And, by George! it was a darn fine piece of work on somebody's part to intercept that note!" Potter managed to get a room in the New Willard, and, after going to his room for the refreshment of a bath, he descended to the dining-room for luncheon. He seated himself at a table and was looking over the card when he heard a voice a table or so away. It was a voice that made him lose interest in cards, in food, in everything but the proximity of the owner of the voice. "We'll have to guard everything," it was saying. "There won't be a thing we can leave without watching.... I know.... These German spies and German sympathizers.... Oh, I hate myself for the German blood in my veins." "Now, Hildegarde, that's no way to talk. I'm sure your father is as good a citizen as if his ancestors had come over in the _Mayflower_--" "Instead of the North German Lloyd," Hildegarde replied. "This talk of Mr. Wilson's about our having no quarrel with the German people is _wrong_. It isn't just the Kaiser. It's the breed. We want to forget that sort of nonsense. We'll find we're fighting the German people--and what kind we're fighting. With their crucifixions and massacres and abominations." "Hildegarde!" "Oh, father knows what I think. And it's true. I've lived among them all my life. We used to think they were merely crude, with bad manners.... It wasn't that.... They're savage. They never even had a decent veneer of civilization." "Well," said the lady with Hildegarde, "if all German-Americans felt as you do--" "I'm no German-American. There isn't any such thing. There are Americans and traitors. You can't sit on the fence." Potter shoved back his chair and stood erect. In his heart was a cramping pain; joy at seeing Hildegarde found place beside reawakened torment.... He could not bear to turn to look at her, yet he could not bear _not_ to look at her. He clutched his chair until his knuckles showed white.... She was not to be resisted. He shoved the chair away and strode to her table. "Hildegarde!" he said. It was a cry wrung from him as a cry is wrung from a tree in the forest when some mighty tempest twists and rends it, splitting it, tearing into white wound the fibers that surround its heart.