The Reverend Henry was already at the window. He threw it up and leaned out.
"One can't approve of it, but I suppose in war time—" Mrs. Henry was beginning when her husband cut her short. "Hush—I'm trying to hear what he is saying. I wish boys could be taught to speak distinctly." There was a pause.
"I can't make him out." The Reverend Henry's head reappeared between the curtains. "It's really most exasperating; I'd give a lot to know if the Belgian army got out of Antwerp before it fell."
"Couldn't you shout down and ask him?"
"No, no. I cannot be discovered interrogating urchins about secular affairs from a second storey window on Sunday evening. Still, I'd like to know."
The Reverend Henry perambulated the room with knitted brow.
"I never bought a Sunday paper of any sort in my life. Never."
"I suppose one must have some principles," said his wife.
"But it's enormously important, you know. They may easily have been surrounded and captured." He returned to the window. "Hullo, he's gone to the door. I say, Cook has bought one. This is exciting. I should never have thought Cook would have done that."
"It raises rather a nice point," said Mrs. Henry.