The young man unconsciously quickened his pace. "I think it is certain,"
he said. "We must come in. I should say, more likely, the credit system
makes it impossible for us to keep out. I mean, half Europe can't go to
war and we sit still. Not in these days. And if it comes--Good Lord,
Hilda, do you know what it means? I can't see the end, only it looks to
me like being a fearful smash.... Oh, we shall pull through, but nobody
seems to see that our ordinary life will come down like a pack of cards.
And what will the poor do? And can't you see the masses of poor souls
that will be thrown into the vortex like, like...." He broke off. "I
can't find words," he said, gesticulating nervously. "It's colossal."

"Peter, you're going to preach about it: I can see you are. But do take
care what you say. I should hate father to be upset. He's so--oh, I don't
know!--_British_, I think. He hates to be thrown out, you know, and he
won't think all that possible."

She glanced up (the least little bit that she had to) anxiously. Graham
smiled. "I know Mr. Lessing," he said. "But, Hilda, he's _got_ to be
moved. Why, he may be in khaki yet!"

"Oh, Peter, don't be silly. Why, father's fifty, and not exactly in
training," she laughed. Then, seriously: "But for goodness' sake don't
say such things--for my sake, anyway."

Peter regarded her gravely, and held open the gate. "I'll remember," he
said, "but more unlikely things may happen than that."

They went up the path together, and Hilda slipped a key into the door. As
it opened, a thought seemed to strike her for the first time. "What will
_you_ do?" she demanded suddenly.