Grahame's face fell; his sombre glance swept the beautiful room and rested on a picture—the "Battle of Waterloo."
"It will be worse than that," he said, abruptly. "May I take one of these cigars? Oh, thank you."
Jack's heart sank, but he smiled and passed a lighted cigar-lamp to the other.
"My judgment has been otherwise," he said, "and what you say troubles me."
"It troubles me, too," said Grahame, looking out of the dark window at the watery clouds, ragged, uncanny, whirling one by one like tattered witches across the disk of a misshapen moon.
After a silence Jack relighted his half-burned cigar.
"Then it is invasion?" he asked.
"Yes—invasion."
"When?"
"Now."