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 face: "But Huns make 'mistakes.' And remember the Lusitania."

We always are remembering the Lusitania. I never dress for dinner at night without recalling: And they went down in evening clothes. We play cards. We dance on deck. But never does one completely while away the recurring thought: Death snatched them as suddenly as from this my next play or as from the Turkey Trot or the Maxixe that the band is just beginning.

We read our Mr. Britlings but intermittently. The plot in which we find ourselves competes with the best seller. Subconsciously I am always listening for the explosion. If the Germans don't do it with a submarine, it may be a floating mine that the last storm has lashed loose from its moorings.

What is this? Rumour spreads among the steamer chairs. Everybody rises. Little groups gather with lifted glasses. And—it is a piece of driftwood sighted on the wide Atlantic. That thrill walks off in about three times around the deck.

But what is that, out there, beyond the steamer's path? Right over there where the fog is lifting? Surely, yes, that shadowy outline. Don't you see it? Why, it's growing larger every minute. I believe it is! Oh, yes, I'm sure they look like that. Wait. Well, if it were, it does seem as if the torpedo would have been here by now. Ah, we shall not be sunk this time after all! Our periscope passes. It is clearly now only a steamship's funnel against the horizon.