Namur fell.  The place names continued to shift southward and westward.  The British army or a part of it came to light abruptly at Mons. It had been fighting for thirty-eight hours and defeating enormously superior forces of the enemy.  That was reassuring until a day or so later “the Cambray—­Le Cateau line” made Mr. Britling realise that the victorious British had recoiled five and twenty miles....

And then came the Sunday of The Times telegram, which spoke of a “retreating and a broken army.”  Mr. Britling did not see this, but Mr. Manning brought over the report of it in a state of profound consternation.  Things, he said, seemed to be about as bad as they could be.  The English were retreating towards the coast and in much disorder.  They were “in the air” and already separated from the Trench.  They had narrowly escaped “a Sedan” under the fortifications of Maubeuge....  Mr. Britling was stunned.  He went to his study and stared helplessly at maps.  It was as if David had flung his pebble—­and missed!

But in the afternoon Mr. Manning telephoned to comfort his friend.  A reassuring despatch from General French had been published and—­all was well—­practically—­and the British had been splendid.  They had been fighting continuously for several days round and about Mons; they had been attacked at odds of six to one, and they had repulsed and inflicted enormous losses on the enemy.  They had established an incontestable personal superiority over the Germans.  The Germans had been mown down in heaps; the British had charged through their cavalry like charging through paper.  So at last and very gloriously for the British, British and German had met in battle.  After the hard fighting of the 26th about Landrecies, the British had been comparatively unmolested, reinforcements covering double the losses had joined them and the German advance was definitely checked ...  Mr. Britling’s mind swung back to elation.  He took down the entire despatch from Mr. Manning’s dictation, and ran out with it into the garden where Mrs. Britling, with an unwonted expression of anxiety, was presiding over the teas of the usual casual Sunday gathering....  The despatch was read aloud twice over.  After that there was hockey and high spirits, and then Mr. Britling went up to his study to answer a letter from Mrs. Harrowdean, the first letter that had come from her since their breach at the outbreak of the war, and which he was now in a better mood to answer than he had been hitherto.

She had written ignoring his silence and absence, or rather treating it as if it were an incident of no particular importance.  Apparently she had not called upon the patient and devoted Oliver as she had threatened; at any rate, there were no signs of Oliver in her communication.  But she reproached Mr. Britling for deserting her, and she clamoured for his presence and for kind and strengthening words.  She was, she said, scared by this war.  She was