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As well as I can remember it was the night of August 6th that the first serious dispute arose. England had declared war. All our male servants had left us except two American chauffeurs, and a couple of old outside men. Two of our four cars, and all our horses but one had been requisitioned. That did not upset us. We had taken on the wives of some of the men, among them Angele, the pretty wife of one of the French chauffeurs, and her two-months-old baby into the bargain. We still had two cars, that, at a pinch, would carry the party, and we still had one mount in case of necessity.

The question arose as to whether we should break up and make for the nearest port while we could, or “stick it out.” It had been finally agreed not to evacuate– yet. One does not often get such a chance to see a country at war, and we were all ardent spectators, and all unattached. I imagine not one of us had at that time any idea of being useful–the stupendousness of it all had not dawned on any of us–unless it was the Doctor.

But after the decision of “stick” had been passed unanimously, the Critic, who was a bit of a sentimentalist, and if he were anything else was a Norman Angel-lite, stuck his hands in his pockets, and remarked: “After all, it is perfectly safe to stay, especially now that England is coming in.”

“You think so?” said the Doctor.

“Sure,” smiled the Critic. “The Germans will never cross the French frontier this time. This is not 1870.”

“Won’t they, and isn’t it?” replied the Doctor sharply.

“They never can get by Verdun and Belfort.”

“Never said they could,” remarked the Doctor, with a tone as near to a sneer as a good-natured host can allow himself. “But they’ll invade fast enough. I know what I am talking about.”

“You don’t mean to tell me,” said the Critic, “that a nation like Germany–I’m talking now about the people, the country that has been the hot bed of Socialism,–will stand for a war of invasion?”

That started the Doctor off. He flayed the theorists, the people who reasoned with their emotions and not their brains, the mob that looked at externals, and never saw the fires beneath, the throng that was unable to understand anything outside its own horizon, the mass that pretended to read the history of the world, and because it changed its clothes imagined that it had changed its spirit.

“Why, I’ve lived in Germany,” he cried. “I was educated there. I know them. I have the misfortune to understand them. They’ll stick together and Socialism go hang–as long as there is a hope of victory. The Confederation was cemented in the blood of victory. It can only be dissolved in the blood of defeat. They are a great, a well-disciplined, and an obedient people.”

“One would think you admired them and their military system,” remarked the Critic, a bit crest-fallen at the attack.

“I may not, but I’ll tell you one sure thing if you want a good circus you’ve got to train your animals. The Kaiser has been a corking ringmaster.”

Of course this got a laugh, and though both Critic and Journalist tried to strike fire again with words like “democracy” and “civilization,” the Doctor had cooled down, and nothing could stir him again that night.

Still the discord had been sown. I suppose the dinner-table talk was only a sample of what was going on, in that month, all over the world. It did not help matters that as the days went on we all realized that the Doctor had been right–that France was to be invaded, not across her own proper frontier, but across unprotected Belgium. This seemed so atrocious to most of us that indignation could only express itself in abuse. There was not a night that the dinner-table talk was not bitter. You see the Doctor did not expect the world ever to be perfect–did not know that he wanted it to be–believed in the struggle. On the other hand the Critic, and in a certain sense the Journalist, in spite of their experiences, were more or less Utopian, and the Sculptor and the Violinist purely spectators.