He couldn’t make America go to war.

In the quiet of his London hotel he thought it all out.  He sat at a writing-table making notes of a perfectly lucid statement of the reasonable, balanced liberal American opinion.  An instinct of caution determined him to test it first on Mr. Britling.

But Mr. Britling realised his worst expectations.  He was beyond listening.

“I’ve not heard from my boy for more than three weeks,” said Mr. Britling in the place of any salutation.  “This morning makes three-and-twenty days without a letter.”

It seemed to Mr. Direck that Mr. Britling had suddenly grown ten years older.  His face was more deeply lined; the colour and texture of his complexion had gone grey.  He moved restlessly and badly; his nerves were manifestly unstrung.

“It’s intolerable that one should be subjected to this ghastly suspense.  The boy isn’t three hundred miles away.”

Mr. Direck made obvious inquiries.

“Always before he’s written—­generally once a fortnight.”

They talked of Hugh for a time, but Mr. Britling was fitful and irritable and quite prepared to hold Mr. Direck accountable for the laxity of the War Office, the treachery of Bulgaria, the ambiguity of Roumania or any other barb that chanced to be sticking into his sensibilities.  They lunched precariously.  Then they went into the study to smoke.

There Mr. Direck was unfortunate enough to notice a copy of that innocent American publication The New Republic, lying close to two or three numbers of The Fatherland, a pro-German periodical which at that time inflicted itself upon English writers with the utmost determination.  Mr. Direck remarked that The New Republic was an interesting effort on the part of “la Jeunesse Americaine.”  Mr. Britling regarded the interesting effort with a jaded, unloving eye.

“You Americans,” he said, “are the most extraordinary people in the world.”

“Our conditions are exceptional,” said Mr. Direck.

“You think they are,” said Mr. Britling, and paused, and then began to deliver his soul about America in a discourse of accumulating bitterness.  At first he reasoned and explained, but as he went on he lost self-control; he became dogmatic, he became denunciatory, he became abusive.  He identified Mr. Direck more and more with his subject; he thrust the uncivil “You” more and more directly at him.  He let his cigar go out, and flung it impatiently into the fire.  As though America was responsible for its going out....