“The truth!” we demanded.
“Oh, the truth,” she stammered, “the truth has nothing to do with literature,” and sitting down she refused to say another word.
It all seemed to us very inconclusive.
“Ladies, we must try to sum up the results,” Jane was beginning, when a hum, which had been heard for some time through the open window, drowned her voice.
“War! War! War! Declaration of War!” men were shouting in the street below.
We looked at each other in horror.
“What war?” we cried. “What war?” We remembered, too late, that we had never thought of sending anyone to the House of Commons. We had forgotten all about it. We turned to Poll, who had reached the history shelves in the London Library, and asked her to enlighten us.
“Why,” we cried, “do men go to war?”
“Sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another,” she replied calmly. “In 1760, for example———” The shouts outside drowned
