Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.

“Send her to me, then,” he said.

“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.

Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.

She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.

“This is a bad business, Fräulein.”

“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”

Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”

The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.

“What arrangements could I make? No one will want me, I suppose. I wish I had gone back to Germany a week ago. Will they let me now?”

“Why not? This isn’t a seaside place. You’d better go up and see the authorities. I’ll give you a letter to say you’ve been quietly down here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Forsyte. That is kind.”

“I don’t want you to go,” said Soames. “It’s all nonsense; but one can’t control these things”; and, seeing two tears glistening on her cheekbones, he added hastily: “Fleur’ll miss you. Have you got money?”

“Very little. I send my salary to my old parents.”

There it was! Old parents, young children, invalids, and all the rest of it. The pinch! And here he was administering it! A personable young woman, too! Nothing against her except the war! “If I were you,” he said slowly, “I shouldn’t waste time. I’d go up before they know where they are. There’ll be a lot of hysteria. Wait a minute, I’ll give you money.”

He went to the old walnut bureau, which he had picked up in Reading—a fine piece with a secret drawer, and a bargain at that. He didn’t know what to give her—the whole thing was so uncertain. Though she stood there so quietly, he was conscious that her tears were in motion.

“Damn it!” he said, softly, “I shall give you a term’s salary and fifteen pounds in cash for your journey. If they won’t let you go, let me know when you come to the end of it.”

The young woman raised her clasped hands.

“I don’t want to take money, Mr. Forsyte.”

“Nonsense,” said Soames; “you’ll take what I give you. It’s all against my wish. You ought to be staying, in my opinion. What’s it to do with women?”

He took from the secret drawer an adequate number of notes and went towards her.

“I’ll send you to the station. Go up and see the authorities this very afternoon; and while you get ready I’ll write that letter.”

The young woman bent and kissed his hand. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and he didn’t know that he ever wanted it to happen again.

“There, there!” he said, and turning back to the bureau, wrote:

He then telephoned for a car, having refused so far to have one of his own—tearing great things, always getting out of order.

When the machine arrived, he went out into the hall to wait for the young woman to come down. Fleur and a little friend had gone off to some wood or other; Annette was in the garden and would stay there, he shouldn’t wonder; he didn’t want the young woman to go off without a hand to shake.

First they brought down a shiny foreign trunk, then a handbag, and a little roll with an umbrella stuck through it. The young woman came last. Her eyes were red. The whole thing suddenly seemed to Soames extraordinarily barbarous. To be thrown out at a moment’s notice like this because her confounded Kaiser’s military cut-throats had lost their senses! It wasn’t English!

“Here’s the letter. You’d better stay at that hotel near Victoria until you go. Good-bye, then; I’m very sorry, but you’ll be more comfortable at home while the war’s on.”

He shook her gloved hand, and perceiving that his own was again in danger, withdrew it hastily.

“Give Fleur a kiss for me, please, Sir.”

“I will. She’ll be sorry to have missed you. Well, good-bye!” He was terrified that she would begin crying again, or attempt to thank him, and he added hastily: “You’ll have a nice drive.” As a fact he doubted it, for in fancy he could see her oozing into her handkerchief all the way.

The luggage was in now, and so was she. The car was making the usual noises. Soames, in the doorway, lifted his hand, twiddling it towards her turned red face.

Her lip was drooping, she wore a scared expression. He gave her a wan smile, and turned back into the house. Too bad!

Rumours! Soames would never have believed that people could be such fools. Rumours of naval engagements, rumours of spies, rumours of Russians. Take, for instance, his meeting with the village schoolmistress outside the school.

“Have you heard the terrible news, Mr. Forsyte?”

Soames’ hair stood up under his hat.

“No; what’s that?”

“Oh! there’s been a dreadful battle at sea. We’ve lost six battleships. Isn’t it awful?”

Soames’ fists clenched themselves in his pockets.

“Who told you that?”

“It’s all over the village. Six ships—isn’t it terrible?”

“What did the Germans lose?”

“Twelve!”

Soames almost jumped.

“Twelve! Then the war’s over. What do you mean—terrible—why, it’s the best news we could have!”

“Oh! but six of our own ships—it’s awful!”

“War is awful,” said Soames. “But if this is true—” He left her abruptly and made for the Post Office. It was not true, of course. Nothing was true. Not even his own suspicions. Take, for instance, those two square-shouldered men in straw hats whom he met walking down a lane with their feet at right angles, as Englishmen never walked. Germans, and spies into the bargain, or he was a Dutchman; especially as his telephone went out of order that very afternoon. And of course they turned out to be two Americans staying at Pangbourne on a holiday, and the wire had been affected by a thunderstorm. But what were you to think, when the newspapers were full of spy stories, and the very lightning was apparently in the German secret service. As to mirrors in daylight and matches after dark, they were in obvious communication with the German fleet in the Kiel Canal, or wherever it was. Time and again Soames would say:

“Bunkum! The whole thing’s weak-minded!” Only to feel himself weak-minded the next moment. Look at those two hundred thousand Russians whom everybody was seeing in trains all over the country. They turned out to be eggs, and probably addled at that; but how could you help believing in them, especially when you wanted to! And then the authorities told you nothing; dumb as oysters; as if that were the way to treat an Englishman—it only made him fancy things. And there was Mons. They couldn’t even let you know about the army, except that it was heroic, and had killed a lot of Germans, and was marching backwards in order to put the finishing touch to them. That was about all one heard, till suddenly one found it was touch and go whether Paris could be saved, and the French Government had packed their traps and gone off to Bordeaux. And all the time nothing to do but read the papers, which he couldn’t believe, and listen to the click of Annette’s needles. And then came the news of the battle of the Marne, and he could breathe again.