Lady McIntyre, in her fashionable mourning, more shrunken and piteous than ever, went on addressing to Julian her polite inanities, couched for the most part in that form of acknowledged intellectual poverty, the question. How many more months did Julian think this dreadful war was going to last? "They" couldn't get home by Christmas now, could they? Wasn't it wicked, after promising? And what did Julian think about the letters in the papers about possible air raids?
"Wildest folly ever talked!" Sir William interjected.
"It's true," said Lady McIntyre, hopefully. "William has never believed there's the least chance of a Zeppelin reaching England."
"As much as your descending on Berlin out of a parachute. To insure against air raids is to waste money and cocker up the Germans."
"Do you think so, too?" Lady McIntyre fixed her blue eyes on Julian Grant's face. "Do you know, in spite of what William says, I can't help feeling that every one who goes out at night in these dreadful times ought to take precautions." As no one responded, she strengthened her point. "I hear the streets grow darker and darker. Every night—yes, every single night—people are run over. The only way is for everybody who goes out at night to insure themselves."
Nobody seemed to have the heart to disturb her apparent belief that to insure against accident meant that a stop would be put to these regrettable affairs.
"All this talk in the papers," Sir William went on, "is pure concession to panic. Like the nonsense about what the submarines might do. Nothing could suit Germany's book better."
"Except, I suppose, sinking our ships." For the first time Julian took some interest in the conversation.
"Sinking our ships!" quavered Lady McIntyre.
"I should have thought the loss of the Aboukir and Cressy (those awful casualty-lists!) might have made people a little less ready to talk about our invulnerable Navy."