civilian, their coolness was almost irritating and totally
incomprehensible. I found a new explanation by saying that, after
all, war was their professional chance--in fact, exactly what a
shortage in the flour-market was to a man who had quantities of wheat
on hand.

That night we travelled to London, arriving about two o'clock in the
morning. There was little to denote that a European war was on, except
that people were a trifle more animated and cheerful. The next day was
Sunday, and we motored round Hampstead Heath. The Heath was as usual,
gay with pleasure-seekers and the streets sedate with church-goers. On
Monday, when we tried to transact business and exchange money, we
found that there were hitches and difficulties; it was more as though
a window had been left open and a certain untidiness had resulted. "It
will be all right tomorrow," everybody said. "Business as usual," and
they nodded.

But as the days passed it wasn't all right. Kitchener began to call
for his army. Belgium was invaded. We began to hear about atrocities.
There were rumours of defeat, which ceased to be rumours, and of grey
hordes pressing towards Paris. It began to dawn on the most optimistic
of us that the little British Army--the Old Contemptibles--hadn't gone
to France on a holiday jaunt.

The sternness of the hour was brought home to me by one obscure
incident. Straggling across Trafalgar Square in mufti and commanded by
a sergeant came a little procession of recruits. They were roughly
dressed men of the navy and the coster class. All save one carried
under his arm his worldly possessions, wrapped in cloth, brown-paper
or anything that had come handy. The sergeant kept on giving them the