P.S.  This is the most comical of all worlds:  While I was writing this, it seems the maids went back upstairs and lighted their lights without pulling their shades down—­they occupy three rooms, in front.  The doorbell rang furiously.  Here were more than half a dozen policemen and special constables—­must investigate!  “One light would be turned on, another would go out; another one on!”—­etc., etc.  Frank tackled them, told ’em it was only the maids going to bed, forgetting to pull down the shades.  Spies and signalling were in the air!  So, in the morning, I’ll have to send over to the Foreign Office and explain.  The Zeppelin did more “frightfulness” than I had supposed, after all.  Doesn’t this strike you as comical?

     W.H.P.

     Friday, September 10, 1915.

P.S.  The news is just come that Dumba is dismissed.  That will clear the atmosphere—­a little, but only a little.  Dumba committed a diplomatic offence.  The German Government has caused the death of United States citizens, has defied us, has declared it had changed its policy and yet has gone on with the same old policy.  Besides, Bernstorff has done everything that Dumba did except employ Archibald, which was a mere incident of the game.  The President took a strong stand:  they have disregarded it—­no apology nor reparation for a single boat that has been sunk.  Now the English opinion of the Germans is hardly a calm, judicial opinion—­of course not.  There may be facts that have not been made known.  There must be good reasons that nobody here can guess, why the President doesn’t act in the long succession of German acts against us. But I tell you with all solemnity that British opinion and the British Government have absolutely lost their respect for us and their former high estimate of the President.  And that former respect is gone for good unless he acts now very quickly[8].  They will pay nothing more than formal and polite attention to anything we may hereafter say.  This is not resentful.  They don’t particularly care for us to get into the war.  Their feeling (I mean among our best old friends) is not resentful.  It is simply sorrowful.  They had the highest respect for our people and our President.  The Germans defy us; we sit in silence.  They conclude here that we’ll submit to anything from anybody.  We’ll write strong notes—­nothing more.

I can’t possibly exaggerate the revulsion of feeling.  Members of the Government say (in private, of course) that we’ll submit to any insult.  The newspapers refuse to publish articles which attempt to make the President’s silence reasonable.  “It isn’t defensible,” they say, “and they would only bring us thousands of insulting letters from our readers.”  I can’t think of a paper nor of a man who has a good word to say for us—­except, perhaps, a few Quaker peace-at-any-price people.  And our old friends are disappointed and sorrowful.