this sense of race-antagonism.  It was impossible that the news of the war should not be mentioned, for that would have created an intolerable unreality, and all that was in their power was to avoid all discussion, to suppress from speech all the feelings with which the news filled them.  Every day, too, there came fresh stories of German abominations committed on the Belgians, and each knew that the other had seen them, and yet neither could mention them.  For while Sylvia could not believe them, Michael could not help doing so, and thus there was no common ground on which they could speak of them.  Often Mrs. Falbe, in whose blood, it would seem, no sense of race beat at all, would add to the embarrassment by childlike comments, saying at one time in reference to such things that she made a point of not believing all she saw in the newspapers, or at another ejaculating, “Well, the Germans do seem to have behaved very cruelly again!” But no emotion appeared to colour these speeches, while all the emotion of the world surged and bubbled behind the silence of the other two.

Then followed the darkest days that England perhaps had ever known, when the German armies, having overcome the resistance of Belgium, suddenly swept forward again across France, pushing before them like the jetsam and flotsam on the rim of the advancing tide the allied armies.  Often in these appalling weeks, Michael would hesitate as to whether he should go to see Sylvia or not, so unbearable seemed the fact that she did not and could not feel or understand what England was going through.  So far from blaming her for it, he knew that it could not be otherwise, for her blood called to her, even as his to him, while somewhere in the onrush of those advancing and devouring waves was her brother, with whom, so it had often seemed to him, she was one soul.  Thus, while in that his whole sympathy and whole comprehension of her love was with him, there was as well all that deep, silent English patriotism of which till now he had scarcely been conscious, praying with mute entreaty that disaster and destruction and defeat might overwhelm those advancing hordes.  Once, when the anxiety and peril were at their height, he made up his mind not to see her that day, and spent the evening by himself.  But later, when he was actually on his way to bed, he knew he could not keep away from her, and though it was already midnight, he drove down to Chelsea, and found her sitting up, waiting for the chance of his coming.

For a moment, as she greeted him and he kissed her silently, they escaped from the encompassing horror.

“Ah, you have come,” she said.  “I thought perhaps you might.  I have wanted you dreadfully.”

The roar of artillery, the internecine strife were still.  Just for a few seconds there was nothing in the world for him but her, nor for her anything but him.

“I couldn’t go to bed without just seeing you,” he said.  “I won’t keep you up.”