The Philosopher was by no means certain that the Sentimentalist was a Plum. She was very kind to him,—she had pretty, docile, winsome ways, and seemed disposed to “play” with him as a kitten plays with a ball of wool,—she was evidently amused when he held her hand, or patted her shoulder,—but he felt more than positive that she would not “fall into his mouth with a bang!” Her father had confided to him that he meant to leave her a considerable fortune,—“and,” mused the Philosopher, dreamily,—“the old gentleman is getting very shaky. Memory going too,—sense of proportion quite lost.” He yawned, and drove off a bouncing bumble-bee that just then presumed to come too near his rather prominent nose,—then, stretching himself lazily half rose from his reclining attitude as he perceived a little white figure approaching him from the further garden, with a newspaper in its hand. He waited, a trifle impatiently.
“Dear me, what a time she is!” he complained sotto voce. “She doesn’t read newspapers as a rule. What’s in the wind now?”
For she had looked up suddenly, and seeing him, began to run. For a mere Sentimentalist she ran well,—gracefully and swiftly.
“Such news!” she cried, as she approached him. “Such terrible news! England has declared war with Germany!”
“Fiddlesticks!” said the Philosopher, emphatically. “I don’t believe a word of it!”
A little breathless with her run she swept some straying curls of gold from her eyes, and handed him the paper. There was the announcement sure enough—the brief, curt statement that was to drench Europe with blood. But the Philosopher was obstinate.
“All twaddle!” he declared. “Newspaper lies and twaddle!”
Her blue eyes rested upon him with something of wonder and sadness.
“You think so? I hope you may be right!” she said, earnestly. “Oh, I do hope you may be right!”
“Of course, I’m right,” he declared. “I’ve got some common sense. I know how these things are worked up I tell you! What’s it all about?” Here he scanned the newspaper again. “Belgium? What on earth have we got to do with Belgium! Nice muddle we make of everything! Belgium wants to protect France from invasion?—well, let her! There’s no need for us to put our fingers into the pie! Let them all settle their own affairs!”