In the next three days, as they read the news, they felt war like a whirlpool sucking in all their powers to think or feel, felt their own small personal plans whirled about like leaves in a storm.  And while their minds—­at first dazed and stunned by the thought of such appalling armies, battles, death and desolation—­slowly cleared and they strove to think, and Roger thought of business shivered to atoms in every land, and Deborah thought of schools by thousands all over Europe closing down, in cities and in villages, in valleys and on mountain sides, of homes in panic everywhere, of all ideals of brotherhood shaken, bending, tottering—­war broke out in Europe.

“What is this going to mean to me?”

Millions of people were asking that.  And so did Roger and Deborah.  The same night they left for New York, while Edith with a sigh of relief settled back into her family.

* * * * *

The next morning at his office Roger found John waiting with misery stamped on his face.  John had paid small heed to war.  Barely stopping for sleep in the last two days he had gone through scores and hundreds of papers, angrily skipping all those names of kings and emperors and czars, and searching instead for American names, names of patrons—­business!  Gone!  Each hour he had been opening mail and piling up letters cancelling contracts, ordering service discontinued.

Roger sat down at his desk.  As he worked and figured and dictated letters, glancing into the outer rooms he saw the long rows of girls at tables obviously trying to pretend that there was work for them to do.  He felt them anxiously watching him—­as in other offices everywhere millions of other employees kept furtively glancing at their chiefs.

“War,” he thought.  “Shall I close down?” He shrank from what it would mean to those girls.  “Business will pick up again soon.  A few days—­weeks—­that’s all I need.”

And he went to his bank.  No credit there.  He tried other sources, all he could think of, racking his brains as he went about town, but still he could not raise a loan.  Finally he went to the firm which had once held a mortgage on his house.  The chief partner had been close to Bruce, an old college friend.  And when even this friend refused him aid, “It’s a question of Bruce’s children,” Roger muttered, reddening.  He felt like a beggar, but he was getting desperate.  The younger man had looked away and was nervously tapping his desk with his pen.

“Bad as that, eh,” he answered.  “Then I guess it’s got to be done.”  He looked anxiously up at Roger, who just at that moment appeared very old.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Gale,” he said.  “Somehow or other we’ll carry you through.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Roger rose heavily, feeling weak, and took his departure.  “This is war,” he told himself, “and I’ve got to look after my own.”

But he had a sensation almost of guilt, as upon his return to his office he saw those suddenly watchful faces.  He walked past them and went into his room, and again he searched for ways and means.  He tried to see his business as it would be that autumn, to see the city, the nation, the world as it would be in the months ahead.  Repeatedly he fought off his fears.  But slowly and inexorably the sense of his helplessness grew clear.