In the earlier days it did not make so much difference.  The talk was good.  We were a travelled group, and what with reminiscences of people and places, and the scandal of courts, it was far from being dull.  But as the days went on, and the war clouds began to gather, the overcharged air seemed to get on the nerves of the entire group, and instead of the peaceful summer we had counted upon, every one of us seemed to live in his own particular kind of fever.  Every one of us, down to the Youngster, had fixed ideas, deep-set theories, and convictions as different as our characters, our lives, our callings, and our faiths.  We were all Cosmopolitan Americans, but ready to spread the Eagle, if necessary, and all of us, except the Violinist, of New England extraction, which means really of English blood, and that will show when the screws are put on.  We had never thought of the Violinist as not one of us, but he was really of Polish origin.  His great-grandfather had been a companion of Adam Czartoriski in the uprising of 1830, and had gone to the States when the amnesty was not extended to his chief after that rebellion, Poland’s last, had been stamped out.

As well as I can remember it was the night of August 6th that the first serious dispute arose.  England had declared war.  All our male servants had left us except two American chauffeurs, and a couple of old outside men.  Two of our four cars, and all our horses but one had been requisitioned.  That did not upset us.  We had taken on the wives of some of the men, among them Angele, the pretty wife of one of the French chauffeurs, and her two-months-old baby into the bargain.  We still had two cars, that, at a pinch, would carry the party, and we still had one mount in case of necessity.

The question arose as to whether we should break up and make for the nearest port while we could, or “stick it out.”  It had been finally agreed not to evacuate—­yet.  One does not often get such a chance to see a country at war, and we were all ardent spectators, and all unattached.  I imagine not one of us had at that time any idea of being useful—­the stupendousness of it all had not dawned on any of us—­unless it was the Doctor.

But after the decision of “stick” had been passed unanimously, the Critic, who was a bit of a sentimentalist, and if he were anything else was a Norman Angel-lite, stuck his hands in his pockets, and remarked:  “After all, it is perfectly safe to stay, especially now that England is coming in.”

“You think so?” said the Doctor.

“Sure,” smiled the Critic.  “The Germans will never cross the French frontier this time.  This is not 1870.”

“Won’t they, and isn’t it?” replied the Doctor sharply.

“They never can get by Verdun and Belfort.”

“Never said they could,” remarked the Doctor, with a tone as near to a sneer as a good-natured host can allow himself.  “But they’ll invade fast enough.  I know what I am talking about.”