d night. But how events will develop then I can't
imagine. What will England do? Who knows? I only know what Germany
thinks she will do, and that is, stand aside because she can't stir,
with this Irish mill-stone round her neck. If Germany thought otherwise,
she is perfectly capable of sending a dozen submarines over to our naval
manoeuvres and torpedoing our battleships right and left."

Michael laughed outright at this.

"While a fleet of Zeppelins hovers over London, and drops bombs on the
War Office and the Admiralty," he suggested.

But Aunt Barbara was not in the least diverted by this.

"And if England stands aside," she said, "Der Tag will only dawn a
little later, when Germany has settled with France and Russia. We shall
live to see Der Tag, Michael, unless we are run over by motor-buses, and
pray God we shall see it soon, for the sooner the better. Your adorable
Falbes, now, Sylvia and Hermann. What do they think of it?"

"Hermann was certainly rather--rather upset when he read of the Sarajevo
murders," he said. "But he pins his faith on the German Emperor, whom he
alluded to as a fire-engine which would put out any conflagration."

Aunt Barbara rose in violent incredulity.

"Pish and bosh!" she remarked. "If he had alluded to him as an
incendiary bomb, there would have been more sense in his simile."

"Anyhow, he and Sylvia are planning a musical tour in Germany in the
autumn," said Michael.

"'It's a long, long way to Tipperary,'" remarked Aunt Barbara
enigmatically.

"Why Tipperary?" asked Michael.

"Oh, it's just a song I heard at a music-hall the other night. There's
a jolly catchy tune to it, which has rung in my head ever since. That's
the sort of music I like, something you can carry away with you. And
your music, Michael?"

"Rather in abeyance. There are--other things to think about."

Aunt Barbara got up.

"Ah, tell me more about them," she said. "I want to get this nightmare
out of my head. Sylvia, now. Sylvia is a good cure for the nightmare. Is
she kind as she is fair, Michael?"

Michael was silent for a moment. Then he turned a quiet, radiant face to
her.

"I can't talk about it," he said. "I can't get accustomed to the wonder
of it."

"That will do. That's a completely satisfactory account. But go on."

Michael laughed.

"How can I?" he asked. "There's no end and no beginning. I can't 'go on'
as you order me about a thing like that. There is Sylvia; there is me."

"I mu