AND while the world shook with the clash of armies, while the boundaries of States writhed to and fro like earth-worms, and the whole earth was crumbling into a field of ruins, old Mrs. Blahous was peeling her potatoes in Seven Cottages, Grandfather Blahous was sitting on the doorstep smoking beech-leaves, and their neighbour, Mrs. Prouzova, was leaning on the fence, repeating meditatively, “Yes, yes.”

“Aye, yes,” returned Blahous after a while.

“My word, yes,” observed Mrs. Blahous.

“That’s how ’tis,” Mrs. Prouzova answered.

“Oh, what’s the use?” said Grandfather Blahous.

“Yes, that’s it,” added Mrs. Blahous, peeling another potato.

“They say the Italians got a good hiding,” Blahous announced.

“Who from?”

“From the Turks, I expect.”

“Then, I suppose that’ll be the end of the war?”

“What d’you mean? The Prussians’ll start off now.”

“What, against us?”

“Against the French, they say.”

“Good heavens above, everything will be dear again.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Aye, yes.”

“What’s the use?”

“They say that the Swiss wrote not long ago that the others might give it up soon.”

“That’s what I say.”

“Yes. Why, the day before yesterday I paid fifteen hundred crowns for a candle. I tell you, Blahous, it was one of those miserable things only fit for the stable.”

“And you mean to say it cost you fifteen hundred?”

“Not far off. There’s a rise for you, friends!”

“Aye, yes.”

“My word, yes.”

“Who’s ever have thought it? Fifteen hundred!”

“You could get a fine candle for two hundred at one time.”

“Yes, auntie, but that’s years ago. Why, even an egg only cost five hundred in those days.”

“And you could get a pound of butter for three thousand.”

“And lovely butter, too!”

“And boots for eight thousand.”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Blahous, things were cheap in those days.”

“But now—”

“Yes, yes.”

“If only it was all over and done with!”

There was silence. Old Blahous rose, straightened his back, and went into the yard for a wisp of straw.

“Oh, what’s the use?” he said, unscrewing the head of his pipe in order to pull the straw through.

“It wasn’t half smelling before,” remarked Mrs. Blahous, full of interest.

“Smelling,” said Blahous, nodding. “How can it help smelling? There’s no tobacco left in the world now. The last packet I had was the one my son the Professor sent me—let me see, that was in ’49, wasn’t it?”

“That was just four years ago come Easter.”

“So ’twas,” said Granfather Blahous. “We’re getting an old man now. Very, very old.”

“And what I want to know,” began Mrs. Prouzova, “is what’s all this awful to-do about nowadays?”

“What to-do?”

“Well, this war, I mean.”

“Aye, yes, Heaven knows what it’s about,” said Blahous, blowing down his pipe until it gurgled. “That’s what nobody knows, aunt. They say it’s about religion—that’s what they tell me.”