“That is good, then,” she said.  “I am glad you feel comfortable about it, mother dear.  Now, will you read your book out here?  Why not, if I fetch you a shawl in case you feel cold?”

Mrs. Falbe turned a questioning eye to the motionless trees and the unclouded sky.

“I don’t think I shall even want a shawl, dear,” she said.  “Listen, how the newsboys are calling! is it something fresh, do you think?”

A moment’s listening attention was sufficient to make it known that the news shouted outside was concerned only with the result of a county cricket match, and Michael, as well as Sylvia, was conscious of a certain relief to know that at the immediate present there was no fresh clang of the bell that was beating out the seconds of peace that still remained.  Just for now, for this hour on Saturday afternoon, there was a respite:  no new link was forged in the intolerable sequence of events.  But, even as he drew breath in that knowledge, there came the counter-stroke in the sense that those whose business it was to disseminate the news that would cause their papers to sell, had just a cricket match to advertise their wares.  Now, when the country and when Europe were on the brink of a bloodier war than all the annals of history contained, they, who presumably knew what the public desired to be informed on, thought that the news which would sell best was that concerned with wooden bats and leather balls, and strong young men in flannels.  Michael had heard with a sort of tender incredulity Mrs. Falbe’s optimistic reflections, and had been more than content to let her rest secure in them; but was the country, the heart of England, like her?  Did it care more for cricket matches, as she for her book, than for the maintenance of the nation’s honour, whatever that championship might cost? . . .  And the cry went on past the garden-walk.  “Fine innings by Horsfield!  Result of the Oval match!”

And yet he had just had his tea as usual, and eaten a slice of cake, and was now smoking a cigarette.  It was natural to do that, not to make a fuss and refuse food and drink, and it was natural that people should still be interested in cricket.  And at the moment his attitude towards Mrs. Falbe changed.  Instead of pity and irritation at her normality, he was suddenly taken with a sense of gratitude to her.  It was restful to suspense and jangled nerves to see someone who went on as usual.  The sun shone, the leaves of the plane-trees did not wither, Mrs. Falbe read her book, the evening paper was full of cricket news. . . .  And then the reaction from that seized him again.  Supposing all the nation was like that.  Supposing nobody cared. . . .  And the tension of suspense strained more tightly than ever.