CHAPTER VII
In the course of the morning she made several mysterious inquiries of her parent regarding nice points of international law as it concerned murder, and it is probable that he would have been struck by the odd nature of these questions had he not been unduly excited about another matter.
“I tell you, we’ve got to get home!” he announced gloomily. “The German troops are ready at Aix-la-Chapelle for an assault on Liege. Yes, sir—they’re going to strike through Belgium! Know what that means? England in the war! Labor troubles; suffragette troubles; civil war in Ireland—these things will melt away as quickly as that snow we had last winter in Texas. They’ll go in. It would be national suicide if they didn’t.”
His daughter stared at him. She was unaware that it was the bootblack at the Carlton he was now quoting. She began to think he knew more about foreign affairs than she had given him credit for.
“Yes, sir,” he went on; “we’ve got to travel—fast. This won’t be a healthy neighborhood for non-combatants when the ruction starts. I’m going if I have to buy a liner!”
“Nonsense!” said the girl. “This is the chance of a lifetime. I won’t be cheated out of it by a silly old dad. Why, here we are, face to face with history!”
“American history is good enough for me,” he spread-eagled. “What are you looking at?”
“Provincial to the death!” she said thoughtfully. “You old dear—I love you so! Some of our statesmen over home are going to look pretty foolish now in the face of things they can’t understand, I hope you’re not going to be one of them.”
“Twaddle!” he cried. “I’m going to the steamship offices to-day and argue as I never argued for a vote.”