employees in the wireless telegraphy office were working incessantly.
One night, on entering the smoking room, Desnoyers saw the German
notables gesticulating with animated countenances. They were no longer
drinking beer. They had had bottles of champagne uncorked, and the
Counsellor's Lady, much impressed, had not retired to her stateroom.
Captain Erckmann, spying the young Argentinian, offered him a glass.

"It is war," he shouted with enthusiasm. "War at last. . . . The hour
has come!"

Desnoyers made a gesture of astonishment. War! . . . What war? . . .
Like all the others, he had read on the news bulletin outside
a radiogram stating that the Austrian government had just sent an
ultimatum to Servia; but it made not the slightest impression on him,
for he was not at all interested in the Balkan affairs. Those were but
the quarrels of a miserable little nation monopolizing the attention of
the world, distracting it from more worthwhile matters. How could this
event concern the martial Counsellor? The two nations would soon come to
an understanding. Diplomacy sometimes amounted to something.

"No," insisted the German ferociously. "It is war, blessed war. Russia
will sustain Servia, and we will support our ally. . . . What will
France do? Do you know what France will do?" . . .

Julio shrugged his shoulders testily as though asking to be left out of
all international discussions.

"It is war," asserted the Counsellor, "the preventive war that we need.
Russia is growing too fast, and is preparing to fight us. Four years
more of peace and she will have finished her strategic railroads, and