CHAPTER XV

It was but a day or two after the outbreak of the war that it was believed that an expeditionary force was to be sent to France, to help in arresting the Teutonic tide that was now breaking over Belgium; but no public and authoritative news came till after the first draft of the force had actually set foot on French soil.  From the regiment of the Guards which Michael had rejoined, Francis was among the first batch of officers to go, and that evening Michael took down the news to Sylvia.  Already stories of German barbarity were rife, of women violated, of defenceless civilians being shot down for no object except to terrorise, and to bring home to the Belgians the unwisdom of presuming to cross the will of the sovereign people.  To-night, in the evening papers, there had been a fresh batch of these revolting stories, and when Michael entered the studio where Sylvia and her mother were sitting, he saw the girl let drop behind the sofa the paper she had been reading.  He guessed what she must have found there, for he had already seen the paper himself, and her silence, her distraction, and the misery of her face confirmed his conjecture.

“I’ve brought you a little news to-night,” he said.  “The first draft from the regiment went off to-day.”

Mrs. Falbe put down her book, marking the place.

“Well, that does look like business, then,” she said, “though I must say I should feel safer if they didn’t send our soldiers away.  Where have they gone to?”

“Destination unknown,” said Michael.  “But it’s France.  My cousin has gone.”

“Francis?” asked Sylvia.  “Oh, how wicked to send boys like that.”

Michael saw that her nerves were sharply on edge.  She had given him no greeting, and now as he sat down she moved a little away from him.  She seemed utterly unlike herself.

“Mother has been told that every Englishman is as brave as two Germans,” she said.  “She likes that.”

“Yes, dear,” observed Mrs. Falbe placidly.  “It makes one feel safer.  I saw it in the paper, though; I read it.”

Sylvia turned on Michael.

“Have you seen the evening paper?” she asked.

Michael knew what was in her mind.

“I just looked at it,” he said.  “There didn’t seem to be much news.”

“No, only reports, rumours, lies,” said Sylvia.

Mrs. Falbe got up.  It was her habit to leave the two alone together, since she was sure they preferred that; incidentally, also, she got on better with her book, for she found conversation rather distracting.  But to-night Sylvia stopped her.

“Oh, don’t go yet, mother,” she said.  “It is very early.”

It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone with Michael, for never had she done this before.  Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading without delay, moved towards the door.