"Probably never. Europe, the British Isles, and the United States are dotted all over with similar and feminine groups attempting haystacks. The sum-total of physical energy thus expended must be enormous—like the horsepower represented by Niagara. But it creates no ripple upon the intellectual serenity of the thinking world. God alone knows why women paint haystacks. I do my best to switch them toward other phenomena."
The rural postman on his bicycle, wearing képi and blue blouse, came pedaling along the highway. When he saw Warner he saluted and got off his wheel.
"Letters, Grandin?"
"Two, Monsieur Warner."
Warner took them.
"Eh, bien?" he inquired, lowering his voice; "et la guerre?"
"Monsieur Warner, the affair is becoming very serious."
"What is the talk in Ausone?"
"People are calm—too calm. A little noise, now, a little gesticulation, and the affair would seem less ominous to me—like the Algeciras matter and the Schnaeble incident before that—Monsieur may remember?"
"I know. It is like the hush before a tempest. The world is too still, the sunlight too perfect."