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France perhaps gone about with a chip on her shoulder? Saverne, for instance: some people think———"

"Damn Saverne! Haven't the Germans shown us what they are now? Belgium sheds all the light I want on Saverne. They're not fit to live with white people, and the sooner they're shown it the better."

"Well, France and Russia and England are here to show them."

George laughed. "Yes, and double quick."

Both were silent again, each thinking his own thoughts. They were apparently the same, for just as Campton was about to ask where George had decided that they should take their last dinner, the young man said abruptly: "Look here. Dad; I'd planned a little tête-à-tête for us this evening."

"Yes———?"

"Well—I can't. I'm going to chuck you." He smiled a little, his colour rising nervously. "For some people I've just run across—who were awfully kind to me at St. Moritz—and in New York last winter. I didn't know they were here till. . . till just now. I'm awfully sorry; but I've simply got to dine with them."

There was a silence. Campton stared out over his son's shoulder at the great sunlit square. "Oh, all right," he said briskly.

This—on George's last night!

"You don't mind much, do you? I'll be back early, for a last pow-wow on the terrace." George paused,