CHAPTER VIII
It was now the morning of Friday, the third day of war, and Mrs. Otway allowed the newspaper she had been holding in her hands to slip on to the floor at her feet with an impatient sigh.
From where she sat, close to the window in her charming sitting-room, her eyes straying down to the ground read in huge characters at the top of one of the newspaper columns the words:
“THE FLEET MOBILISED.”
“MOTOR RUSH FOR VOLUNTEERS.”
“HOW THE NAVAL RESERVE RECEIVED THEIR
NOTICES.”
“OUR SAILORS’ GOOD-BYE.”
Then, at the top of another column, in rather smaller characters, as though that news was after all not really so important as the home news:
“Defeat of the Germans at Liége.”
“Complete Rout.”
“Germans Repulsed at All Points.”
Finally, in considerably smaller characters:
“ALLEGED GERMAN CRUELTIES IN BELGIUM.”
She raised her eyes and looked out, over the Close, to where the Cathedral rose like a diamond set in emeralds. What a beautiful day—and how quiet, how much more quiet than usual, was the dear, familiar, peaceful scene! All this week, thanks in a great measure to the prolonged Bank Holiday, Witanbury had been bathed in a sabbatical calm.