When Mr. Britling went to bed that night, after a long gossip with Carmine about the Bramo Samaj and modern developments of Indian thought generally, the squirrel was still undiscovered.

The worthy modern thinker undressed slowly, blew out his candle and got into bed.  Still meditating deeply upon the God of the Tagores, he thrust his right hand under his pillow according to his usual practice, and encountered something soft and warm and active.  He shot out of bed convulsively, lit his candle, and lifted his pillow discreetly.

He discovered the missing Billy looking crumpled and annoyed.

For some moments there was a lively struggle before Billy was gripped.  He chattered furiously and bit Mr. Britling twice.  Then Mr. Britling was out in the passage with the wriggling lump of warm fur in his hand, and paddling along in the darkness to the door of Herr Heinrich.  He opened it softly.

A startled white figure sat up in bed sharply.

“Billy,” said Mr. Britling by way of explanation, dropped his capture on the carpet, and shut the door on the touching reunion.

Section 3

A day was to come when Mr. Britling was to go over the history of that sunny July with incredulous minuteness, trying to trace the real succession of events that led from the startling crime at Sarajevo to Europe’s last swift rush into war.  In a sense it was untraceable; in a sense it was so obvious that he was amazed the whole world had not watched the coming of disaster.  The plain fact of the case was that there was no direct connection; the Sarajevo murders were dropped for two whole weeks out of the general consciousness, they went out of the papers, they ceased to be discussed; then they were picked up again and used as an excuse for war.  Germany, armed so as to be a threat to all the world, weary at last of her mighty vigil, watching the course of events, decided that her moment had come, and snatched the dead archduke out of his grave again to serve her tremendous ambition.

It may well have seemed to the belligerent German patriot that all her possible foes were confused, divided within themselves, at an extremity of distraction and impotence.  The British Isles seemed slipping steadily into civil war.  Threat was met by counter-threat, violent fool competed with violent fool for the admiration of the world, the National Volunteers armed against the Ulster men; everything moved on with a kind of mechanical precision from parade and meeting towards the fatal gun-running of Howth and the first bloodshed in Dublin streets.  That wretched affray, far more than any other single thing, must have stiffened Germany in the course she had chosen.  There can be no doubt of it; the mischief makers of Ireland set the final confirmation upon the European war.  In England itself there was a summer fever of strikes; Liverpool was choked by a dockers’ strike, the