“What’ll war mean?” he said. “A European war, not just a scrimmage in the Balkans.”
“Don’t know. Damn, you shook the table.”
Robin began his edifice again, and this time spoke himself.
“We must come in, mustn’t we?” he said. “Haven’t we got some sort of arrangement with France and Russia? We’ve got to keep that.”
Nobody answered, and Badsley knocked out the half-smoked ashes of his pipe into the window-box.
“Pretty mean trick of Germany, threatening to invade Belgium, when she’s sworn she wouldn’t,” he said. “Whisky, anybody?”
He went across to his cupboard and poured some out for himself, as he received no answer. The syphon-handle was stiff, then gave way suddenly, and a fountain of whisky and soda aspired like a geyser.
“Have some whisky and soda,” said Robin.
“Got some, thanks: chiefly up my sleeve. Hell!” Robin abandoned the attempt to build, and began flicking counters across the table.
“What was your mother’s friend like?” asked Jim.