he was weary of every reality. She wanted to fly away
into some secret hiding-place and cultivate her simple garden there--as
Voltaire had done.... Sometimes at night she was afraid to undress. She
imagined the sound of guns, she imagined landings and frightful scouts
"in masks" rushing inland on motor bicycles....

It was an ill-timed letter. The nonsense about Prince Louis of
Battenberg and Lord Haldane and the torpedoed battleships annoyed him
extravagantly. He had just sufficient disposition to believe such tales
as to find their importunity exasperating. The idea of going over to
Pyecrafts to spend his days in comforting a timid little dear obsessed
by such fears, attracted him not at all. He had already heard enough
adverse rumours at Claverings to make him thoroughly uncomfortable. He
had been doubting whether after all his "Examination of War" was really
much less of a futility than "And Now War Ends"; his mind was full of a
sense of incomplete statements and unsubstantial arguments. He was
indeed in a state of extreme intellectual worry. He was moreover
extraordinarily out of love with Mrs. Harrowdean. Never had any
affection in the whole history of Mr. Britling's heart collapsed so
swiftly and completely. He was left incredulous of ever having cared for
her at all. Probably he hadn't. Probably the whole business had been
deliberate illusion from first to last. The "dear little thing"
business, he felt, was all very well as a game of petting, but times
were serious now, and a woman of her intelligence should do something
better than wallow in fears and elaborate a winsome feebleness. A very
unnecessary and tiresome feebleness. He came almost to the pitch of
writing that to her.

The despatch from General French put him into a kindlier frame of mind.
He wrote instead briefly but affectionately. As a gentleman should. "How
could you doubt our fleet or our army?" was the gist of his letter. He
ignored completely every suggestion of a visit to Pyecrafts that her
letter had conveyed. He pretended that it had contained nothing of the
sort.... And with that she passed out of his mind again under the stress
of more commanding interests....

Mr. Britling's mood of relief did not last through the week. The
defeated Germans continued to advance. Through a week of deepening
disillusionment the main tide of battle rolled back steadily towards
Paris. Lille was lost without a struggle. It was lost with mysterious
ease....