She nodded. "People don't realize.... But we'll be in it," she said. "No matter how much we try to stay out, they'll force us in. They'll sink another _Lusitania_ and another and another, until we _have_ to come in. You'll see.... Partly because they don't understand--and partly because that's the kind they are. You know a German never understands anybody but a German. They can't. Just before Mother died she said to me, 'Garde'--she always called me Garde--'don't marry a German, honey. Nobody but a German woman should marry a German.' And Mother ought to know, oughtn't she? I'd rather marry a _Chinaman_," she said, suddenly becoming girlish again. "If we have war, what will all the Germans in this country do?" "Talk loudly till war is declared. Then shut up and do sneaky things. Nothing in the open.... I think," she said, slowly, evidently trying to set aside prejudice and cling to fact--"I think most of them will be loyal. In spite of their talk, I don't believe most of them would care to live in Germany and in German conditions. That's why. But there'll be enough." She got up quickly and teed her ball. "Let's go on," she said. Hildegarde played the same steady game as before; Potter's mind was on other things. Somehow he believed this girl was right; that she read the future truly. The sinking of the _Lusitania_ meant war--sooner or later it meant war.... And the country was unready for war. It did not want to get ready for war.... She had spoken about going across to fight with the Allies. He considered that. It was a thing he was to consider for days and weeks to come. But that was a makeshift. He realized it was a makeshift. There must be something better, something more logical than that. He won a hole and halved a hole in the last nine. "When do we fly?" she asked, eagerly. "I shouldn't have promised." "But you did." He nodded. "Whenever you wish." "Let's see. Suppose we say next Tuesday." "My car is here. Can I drive you home?" he said. "I was to telephone for my car. Yes, you may." A limousine was just entering the grounds of the von Essen place in Grossepoint when Potter and Hildegarde reached the drive. "There's Father," she said, and her lips compressed a trifle. A big man who looked not unlike Bismarck, and who endeavored to heighten the likeness, alighted and stood beside the car, looking toward them. It was obvious he was waiting for them. Potter stopped his car and lifted his cap. Herman von Essen scowled. "Since when are you friends with this young man?" he demanded. "Out of that car and into the house. Have you no sense--to be seen in public with this man whose picture is in the papers? For a girl to be with him is to lose her reputation.... And you"--he turned on Potter furiously--"take your car out of my grounds. Never speak with my daughter again. Do you hear? You are a drunken young ruffian." He launched himself into a tirade of great circumstantiality.