LITMIR.BIZ

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hit out by Mr. Raeburn and thrown in by a young Britling; lost by the forwards and rescued by the padded lady. Forward again! This time will do it!

      Cecily away to the left had worked round Mr. Raeburn once more. Teddy, realising that things were serious, was tearing back to attack her.

      Mr. Direck supported with silent intentness. "Centre!" cried Mr. Britling. "Cen-tre!"

      "Mr. Direck!" came her voice, full of confidence. (Of such moments is the heroic life.) The ball shot behind the hurtling Teddy. Mr. Direck stopped it with his foot, a trick he had just learnt from the eldest Britling son. He was neither slow nor hasty. He was in the half-circle, and the way to the goal was barred only by the dust-cloak lady and Mr. Lawrence Carmine. He made as if to shoot to Mr. Carmine's left and then smacked the ball, with the swiftness of a serpent's stroke, to his right.

      He'd done it! Mr. Carmine's stick and feet were a yard away.

      Then hard on this wild triumph came a flash of horror. One can't see everything. His eye following the ball's trajectory…

      Directly in its line of flight was the perambulator.

      The ball missed the legs of the lady with the noble nose by a kind of miracle, hit and glanced off the wheel of the perambulator, and went spinning into a border of antirrhinums.

      "Good!" cried Cecily. "Splendid shot!"

      He'd shot a goal. He'd done it well. The perambulator it seemed didn't matter. Though apparently the impact had awakened the baby. In the margin of his consciousness was the figure of Mr. Britling remarking: "Aunty. You really mustn't wheel the perambulator —just there."

      "I thought," said the aunt, indicating the goal posts by a facial movement, "that those two sticks would be a sort of protection… Aah! Did they then?"

      Never mind that.

      "That's game!" said one of the junior Britlings to Mr. Direck with a note of high appreciation, and the whole party, relaxing and crumpling like a lowered flag, moved towards the house and tea.

      § 5

      "We'll play some more after tea," said Cecily. "It will be cooler then."

      "My word, I'm beginning to like it," said Mr. Direck.

      "You're going to play very well," she said.

      And such is the magic of a game that Mr. Direck was humbly proud and grateful for her praise, and trotted along by the side of this creature who had revealed herself so swift and resolute and decisive, full to overflowing of the mere pleasure of just trotting along by her side. And after tea, which was a large confused affair, enlivened by wonderful and entirely untruthful reminiscences of the afternoon by Mr. Raeburn, they played again, with fewer inefficients and greater skill and swiftness, and Mr. Direck did such quick and intelligent things that everybody declared that he was a hockey player straight from heaven. The dusk, which at last made the position of the ball too speculative for play, came all too soon for him. He had played in six games, and he knew he would be as stiff as a Dutch doll in the morning. But he was very, very happy.

      The rest of the Sunday evening was essentially a sequel to the hockey.

      Mr. Direck changed again, and after using some embrocation that Mrs. Britling recommended very strongly, came down in a black jacket and a cheerfully ample black tie. He had a sense of physical well-being such as he had not experienced since he came aboard the liner at New York. The curious thing was that it was not quite the same sense of physical well-being that one had in America. That is bright and clear and a little dry, this was – humid. His mind quivered contentedly, like sunset midges over a lake – it had no hard bright flashes – and his body wanted to sit about. His sense of intimacy with Cecily increased each time he looked at her. When she met his eyes she smiled. He'd caught her style now, he felt; he attempted no more compliments and was frankly her pupil at hockey and Badminton. After supper Mr. Britling renewed his suggestion of an automobile excursion on the Monday.

      "There's nothing to take you back to London," said Mr. Britling, "and we could just hunt about the district with the little old car and see everything you want to see…"

      Mr. Direck did not hesitate three seconds. He thought of Gladys; he thought of Miss Cecily Corner.

      "Well, indeed," he said, "if it isn't burthening you, if I'm not being any sort of inconvenience here for another night, I'd be really very glad indeed of the opportunity of going around and seeing all these ancient places…"

      § 6

      The newspapers came next morning at nine, and were full of the Sarajevo Murders. Mr. Direck got the Daily Chronicle and found quite animated headlines for a British paper.

      "Who's this Archduke," he asked, "anyhow? And where is this Bosnia? I thought it was a part of Turkey."

      "It's in Austria," said Teddy.

      "It's in the middle ages," said Mr. Britling. "What an odd, pertinaceous business it seems to have been. First one bomb, then another; then finally the man with the pistol. While we were strolling about the rose garden. It's like something out of 'The Prisoner of Zenda.'"

      "Please," said Herr Heinrich.

      Mr. Britling assumed an attentive expression.

      "Will not this generally affect European politics?"

      "I don't know. Perhaps it will."

      "It says in the paper that Serbia has sent those bombs to Sarajevo."

      "It's like another world," said Mr. Britling, over his paper. "Assassination as a political method. Can you imagine anything of the sort happening nowadays west of the Adriatic? Imagine some one assassinating the American Vice-President, and the bombs being at once ascribed to the arsenal at Toronto!.. We take our politics more sadly in the West… Won't you have another egg, Direck?"

      "Please! Might this not lead to a war?"

      "I don't think so. Austria may threaten Serbia, but she doesn't want to provoke a conflict with Russia. It would be going too near the powder magazine. But it's all an extraordinary business."

      "But if she did?" Herr Heinrich persisted.

      "She won't… Some years ago I used to believe in the inevitable European war," Mr. Britling explained to Mr. Direck, "but it's been threatened so long that at last I've lost all belief in it. The Powers wrangle and threaten. They're far too cautious and civilised to let the guns go off. If there was going to be a war it would have happened two years ago when the Balkan League fell upon Turkey. Or when Bulgaria attacked Serbia…"

      Herr Heinrich reflected, and received these conclusions with an expression of respectful edification.

      "I am naturally anxious," he said, "because I am taking tickets for my holidays at an Esperanto Conference at Boulogne."

      § 7

      "There is only one way to master such a thing as driving an automobile," said Mr. Britling outside his front door, as he took his place in the driver's seat, "and that is to resolve that from the first you will take no risks. Be slow if you like. Stop and think when you are in doubt. But do nothing rashly, permit no mistakes."

      It seemed to Mr. Direck as he took his seat beside his host that this was admirable doctrine.

      They started out of the gates with an extreme deliberation. Indeed twice they stopped dead in the act of turning into the road, and the engine had to be restarted.

      "You will laugh at me," said Mr. Britling; "but I'm resolved to have no blunders this time."

      "I don't laugh at you. It's excellent," said Mr. Direck.

      "It's the right way," said Mr. Britling. "Care – oh damn! I've stopped the engine again. Ugh! – ah! —so!– Care, I was saying – and calm."

      "Don't think I want to hurry you," said Mr. Direck. "I don't…"

      They passed through the tillage at a slow, agreeable pace, tooting loudly at every corner, and whenever a pedestrian was approached. Mr. Direck was reminded that he had still to broach the lecture project to Mr. Britling. So

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