massed along the border on the specious pretext of the “Kriegsgefahr-zustand.” It was war.

Kriegsgefahr-zustand

“Oh, well,” George shrugged. He lit a cigarette, and asked: “What did you think of Boylston?”

“Boylston——?”

“The fat brown chap at dinner.”

“Yes—yes—of course.” Campton became aware that he had not thought of Boylston at all, had hardly been aware of his presence. But the painter’s registering faculty was always latently at work, and in an instant he called up a round face, shyly jovial, with short-sighted brown eyes as sharp as needles, and dark hair curling tightly over a wide watchful forehead.

“Why—I liked him.”

“I’m glad, because it was a tremendous event for him, seeing you. He paints, and he’s been keen on your things for years.”

“I wish I’d known.... Why didn’t he say so? He didn’t say anything, did he?”

“No: he doesn’t, much, when he’s pleased. He’s the very best chap I know,” George concluded.

81

VIII

That morning the irrevocable stared at him from the head-lines of the papers. The German Ambassador was recalled. Germany had declared war on France at 6.40 the previous evening; there was an unintelligible allusion, in the declaration, to French aeroplanes throwing bombs on Nuremberg and Wesel. Campton read that part of the message over two or three times.

Aeroplanes throwing bombs? Aeroplanes as engines of destruction? He had always thought of them as a kind of giant kite that fools went up in when they were tired of breaking their necks in other ways. But aeroplane bombardment as a cause for declaring war? The bad faith of it was so manifest that he threw down the papers half relieved. Of course there would be a protest on the part of the allies; a great country like France would not allow herself to be bullied into war on such a pretext.

The ultimatum to Belgium was more serious; but Belgium’s gallant reply would no doubt check Germany on that side. After all, there was such a thing as 

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