What would the Irish do?...

His thoughts were no more than a thorny jungle of unanswerable questions through which he struggled in un-progressive circles.

He got out of bed and dressed in a slow, distraught manner.  When he reached his braces he discontinued dressing for a time; he opened the atlas at Northern France, and stood musing over the Belgian border.  Then he turned to Whitaker’s Almanack to browse upon the statistics of the great European armies.  He was roused from this by the breakfast gong.

At breakfast there was no talk of anything but war.  Hugh was as excited as a cat in thundery weather, and the small boys wanted information about flags.  The Russian and the Serbian flag were in dispute, and the flag page of Webster’s Dictionary had to be consulted.  Newspapers and letters were both abnormally late, and Mr. Britling, tiring of supplying trivial information to his offspring, smoked cigarettes in the garden.  He had an idea of intercepting the postman.  His eyes and ears informed him of the approach of Mrs. Faber’s automobile.  It was an old, resolute-looking machine painted red, and driven by a trusted gardener; there was no mistaking it.

Mrs. Faber was in it, and she stopped it outside the gate and made signals.  Mrs. Britling, attracted by the catastrophic sounds of Mrs. Faber’s vehicle, came out by the front door, and she and her husband both converged upon the caller.

Section 2

“I won’t come in,” cried Mrs. Faber, “but I thought I’d tell you.  I’ve been getting food.”

“Food?”

“Provisions.  There’s going to be a run on provisions.  Look at my flitch of bacon!”

“But—­”

“Faber says we have to lay in what we can.  This war—­it’s going to stop everything.  We can’t tell what will happen.  I’ve got the children to consider, so here I am.  I was at Hickson’s before nine....”

The little lady was very flushed and bright-eyed.  Her fair hair was disordered, her hat a trifle askew.  She had an air of enjoying unwonted excitements.  “All the gold’s being hoarded too,” she said, with a crow of delight in her voice.  “Faber says that probably our cheques won’t be worth that in a few days.  He rushed off to London to get gold at his clubs—­while he can.  I had to insist on Hickson taking a cheque.  ‘Never,’ I said, ‘will I deal with you again—­never—­unless you do....’  Even then he looked at me almost as if he thought he wouldn’t.

“It’s Famine!” she said, turning to Mr. Britling.  “I’ve laid hands on all I can.  I’ve got the children to consider.”

“But why is it famine?” asked Mr. Britling.

“Oh! it is!” she said.

“But why?”

“Faber understands,” she said.  “Of course it’s Famine....”

“And would you believe me,” she went on, going back to Mrs. Britling, “that man Hickson stood behind his counter—­where I’ve dealt with him for years, and refused absolutely to let me have more than a dozen tins of sardines. Refused! Point blank!