She leaned forward in her chair.

“It is such an opportunity as has never occurred before,” she said, “and in a hundred years none so fit may occur again.  Here are we—­England—­on the brink of civil war with Ireland and the Home Rulers; our hands are tied, or, rather, are occupied with our own troubles.  Anyhow, Germany thinks so:  that I know for a fact among so much that is only conjecture.  And perhaps she is right.  Who knows whether she may not be right, and that if she forces on war whether we shall range ourselves with our allies?”

Michael laughed.

“But aren’t you piling up a European conflagration rather in a hurry, Aunt Barbara?” he asked.

“There will be hurry enough for us, for France and Russia and perhaps England, but not for Germany.  She is never in a hurry:  she waits till she is ready.”

A servant brought in tea and Lady Barbara waited till he had left the room again.

“It is as simple as an addition sum,” she said, “if you grant the first step, that Austria is going to make some outrageous demand of Servia.  What follows?  Servia refuses that demand, and Austria begins mobilisation in order to enforce it.  Servia appeals to Russia, invokes the bond of blood, and Russia remonstrates with Austria.  Her representations will be of no use:  you may stake all you have on that; and eventually, since she will be unable to draw back she, too, will begin in her slow, cumbrous manner, hampered by those immense distances and her imperfect railway system, to mobilise also.  Then will Germany, already quite prepared, show her hand.  She will demand that Russia shall cease mobilisation, and again will Russia refuse.  That will set the military machinery of France going.  All the time the governments of Europe will be working for peace, all, that is, except one, which is situated at Berlin.”

Michael felt inclined to laugh at this rapid and disastrous sequence of ominous forebodings; it was so completely characteristic of Aunt Barbara to take the most violent possible view of the situation, which no doubt had its dangers.  And what Michael felt was felt by the enormous majority of English people.

“Dear Aunt Barbara, you do get on quick,” he said.

“It will happen quickly,” she said.  “There is that little cloud in the east like a man’s hand today, and rather like that mailed fist which our sweet peaceful friend in Germany is so fond of talking about.  But it will spread over the sky, I tell you, like some tropical storm.  France is unready, Russia is unready; only Germany and her marionette, Austria, the strings of which she pulls, is ready.”

“Go on prophesying,” said Michael.

“I wish I could.  Ever since that Sarajevo murder I have thought of nothing else day and night.  But how events will develop then I can’t imagine.  What will England do?  Who knows?  I only know what Germany thinks she will do, and that is, stand aside because she can’t stir, with this Irish mill-stone round her neck.  If Germany thought otherwise, she is perfectly capable of sending a dozen submarines over to our naval manoeuvres and torpedoing our battleships right and left.”