July.—Yesterday, when we were dining together, the telephone-bell rang. We both ran to it. It was a call from the Maison B.
"Is F. there?"
"Yes."
"Ask him to come to the telephone at once."
I handed the receiver to my son, and saw that he was listening gravely and attentively. Then his face lighted up; he answered, and I guessed part of what was being said to him. I asked him:
"Is that B.?"
"Yes, Mother; he is asking me to join a squadron of the Flying Corps. Six aeroplanes are to be taken to D.; when I get there I shall be given a commission. You see, I can't refuse."
"Yes, but before that what did he say to you—when you looked so serious? There is going to be war, isn't there?"
He pursed up his mouth, which is a familiar trick of his when he wishes to hide something from me.
"My dear Mother, you think everything points to war. It is quite possible that there will be war, in fact it's almost certain, but as long as they are not actually on the frontier and it is not declared, don't take such a jaundiced view of things, for goodness' sake. B. asks me to go to Douai to make some trial flights, that's all. I gave up flying because there were no openings for civilians, and I had met with endless disappointments and mortifications at the hands of those who should have helped and encouraged me. Now these same people have sent for me; my country needs me, I'm going into the Flying Corps, and I'm off. Cheer up! be pleased about it. I am so pleased to be going to be a bird again! Pack up my things, because I must be at Douai by three o'clock to-morrow. And don't worry—the English and the Russians are in with us. What a lark!"