III
The ultimatum delivered, Sarah promptly retired. She took away from the interview a pleasing consciousness that the honors were with her. And this sense of nascent victory had not grown less by half-past one when she reached Hill Street in time to lunch with Aunt Charlotte.
It was a rather cheerless and ascetic meal, but both ladies were in such excellent fighting trim that the meagerness of the fare didn't matter. Sarah was sure that she had scored heavily. A well-planted bomb had wrought visible confusion in the ranks of the foe. "He sees that it places him in a most awkward position," was her summary for the grim ears of the arch-plotter.
"One knew it would." There were times when Aunt Charlotte had a striking personal resemblance to Moltke; and just now, beyond a doubt, she bore an uncanny likeness to that successful Prussian.
"He hates the idea of what he calls washing dirty linen in public."
"Lacks moral courage as usual." The remark was made in an undertone to the coal-scuttle.
"I hope." But Sarah suddenly bit off the end of her sentence. After all, there are things one cannot discuss.
"You hope what?" The eye of Aunt Charlotte fixed her like a kite.
"No need to say what one hopes," said Sarah dourly.
"I agree." Aunt Charlotte took a sip of hot water and munched a peptonized biscuit with a kind of savage glee. "But we have to remember that the ice is very thin. One
