Then he got up and stretched himself. He looked round curiously at the
bookcase, the Oxford group or two, the hockey cap that hung on the edge
of one. He turned to the mantelpiece and glanced over the photos.
Probably Bob Scarlett would be out at once; he was in some Irish
regiment or other. Old Howson was in India; he wouldn't hear or see much.
Jimmy--what would Jimmy do, now? He picked up the photograph and looked
at it--the clean-shaven, thoughtful, good-looking face of the best fellow
in the world, who had got his fellowship almost at once after his
brilliant degree, and was just now, he reflected, on holiday in the
South of France. Jimmy, the idealist, what would Jimmy do? He reached
for a hat and made for the door. He would post his letter that night
under the stars.

Once outside, he walked on farther down Westminster way. At the Bridge
he leaned for a while and watched the sullen, tireless river, and then
turned to walk up past the House. It was a clear, still night, and the
street was fairly empty. Big Ben boomed eleven, and as he crossed in
front of the gates to reach St. Margaret's he wondered what was doing in
there. He had the vaguest notion where people like the Prime Minister and
Sir Edward Grey would be that night. He thought possibly with the King,
or in Downing Street. And then he heard his name being called, and turned
to see Sir Robert Doyle coming towards him.

The other's face arrested him. "Is there any news, Sir Robert?" he asked.

Sir Robert glanced up in his turn at the great shining dial above them.
"Our ultimatum has gone or is just going to Germany, and in twenty-four
hours we shall be at war," he said tersely. "I'm just going home; I've
been promised a job."