The cab-driver, for gastronomic reasons, declined to take him farther than the Madeleine; and getting out there, Campton walked along the rue Royale. Everything still looked wonderfully as usual; and the fountains in the Place sparkled gloriously. Comparatively few people were about: he was surprised to see how few. A small group of them, he noticed, had paused near the doorway of the Ministry of Marine, and were looking—without visible excitement—at a white paper pasted on the wall. He crossed the street and looked too. In the middle of the paper, in queer Gothic-looking characters, he saw the words “Les Armees De Terre et De Mer....” “Les Armees De Terre et De Mer....” “Les Armees De Terre et De Mer....” War had come—— He knew now that he had never for an instant believed it possible. Even when he had had that white-lipped interview with the Brants, even when he had 63planned to take Fortin-Lescluze by his senile infatuation, and secure a medical certificate for George; even then, he had simply been obeying the superstitious impulse which makes a man carry his umbrella when he goes out on a cloudless morning. 63 War had come. He stood on the edge of the sidewalk, and tried to think—now that it was here—what it really meant: that is, what it meant to him. Beyond that he had no intention of venturing. “This is not our job anyhow,” he muttered, repeating the phrase with which he had bolstered up his talk with Julia. But abstract thinking was impossible: his confused mind could only snatch at a few drifting scraps of purpose. “Let’s be practical,” he said to himself. The first thing to do was to get back to the hotel and call up the physician. He strode along at his fastest limp, suddenly contemptuous of the people who got in his way. “War—and they’ve nothing to do but dawdle and gape! How like the French!” He
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