think about it. You have no idea, Mrs. Paige, what warlike
sentiments I cautiously entertain in my office chair."

She turned nervously, with a sunny glint of gold hair and
fluttering ribbons:

"Are you _never_ perfectly serious, Mr. Berkley? Even at such a
moment as this?"

"Always," he insisted. "I was only philosophising upon these
scenes of inexpensive patriotism which fill even the most urbane
and peaceful among us full of truculence. . . . I recently saw my
tailor wearing a sword, attired in the made-to-measure panoply of
battle."

"Did that strike you as humorous?"

"No, indeed; it fitted; I am only afraid he may find a soldier's
grave before I can settle our sartorial accounts."

There was a levity to his pleasantries which sounded discordant to
her amid the solemnly thrilling circumstances impending. For the
flower of the city's soldiery was going forth to battle--a thousand
gay, thoughtless young fellows summoned from ledger, office, and
counting-house; and all about her a million of their neighbours had
gathered to see them go.

"Applause makes patriots. Why should I enlist when merely by
cheering others I can stand here and create heroes in battalions?"