Mrs. Falbe pulled the shattered remnants of her mind together.  In her heart of hearts she knew she did not care one atom what might happen to armies and navies and nations, provided only that she had a quantity of novels to read, and meals at regular hours.  The fact of being on an island was an immense consolation to her, since it was quite certain that, whatever happened, German armies (or French or Soudanese, for that matter) could not march here and enter her sitting-room and take her books away from her.  For years past she had asked nothing more of the world than that she should be comfortable in it, and it really seemed not an unreasonable request, considering at how small an outlay of money all the comfort she wanted could be secured to her.  The thought of war had upset her a good deal already:  she had been unable to attend to her book when she awoke from her after-lunch nap; and now, when she hoped to have her tea in peace, and find her attention restored by it, she found the general atmosphere of her two companions vaguely disquieting.  She became a little more loquacious than usual, with the idea of talking herself back into a tranquil frame of mind, and reassuring to herself the promise of a peaceful future.

“Such a blessing we have a good fleet,” she said.  “That will make us safe, won’t it?  I declare I almost hate the Germans, though my dear husband was one himself, for making such a disturbance.  The papers all say it is Germany’s fault, so I suppose it must be.  The papers know better than anybody, don’t they, because they have foreign correspondents.  That must be a great expense!”

Sylvia felt she could not endure this any longer.  It was like having a raw wound stroked. . . .

“Mother, you don’t understand,” she said.  “You don’t appreciate what is happening.  In a day or two England will be at war with Germany.”

Mrs. Falbe’s book had slipped from her knee.  She picked it up and flapped the cover once or twice to get rid of dust that might have settled there.

“But what then?” she said.  “It is very dreadful, no doubt, to think of dear Hermann being with the German army, but we are getting used to that, are we not?  Besides, he told me it was his duty to go.  I do not think for a moment that France will be able to stand against Germany.  Germany will be in Paris in no time, and I daresay Hermann’s next letter will be to say that he has been walking down the boulevards.  Of course war is very dreadful, I know that.  And then Germany will be at war with Russia, too, but she will have Austria to help her.  And as for Germany being at war with England, that does not make me nervous.  Think of our fleet, and how safe we feel with that!  I see that we have twice as many boats as the Germans.  With two to one we must win, and they won’t be able to send any of their armies here.  I feel quite comfortable again now that I have talked it over.”

Sylvia caught Michael’s eye for a moment over the tea-urn.  She felt he acquiesced in what she was intending to say.