Even before Michael had left Sylvia that afternoon, Germany had declared war on Russia, on Sunday Belgium received a Note from Berlin definitely stating that should their Government not grant the passage to the German battalions, a way should be forced for them.
On Monday, finally, Germany declared war on France also.
The country held its breath in suspense at what the decision of the Government, which should be announced that afternoon, should be.

One fact only was publicly known, and that was that the English fleet, only lately dismissed from its manoeuvres and naval review, had vanished.
There were guard ships, old cruisers and what not, at certain ports, torpedo-boats roamed the horizons of Deal and Portsmouth, but the great fleet, the swift forts of sea-power, had gone, disappearing no one knew where, into the fine weather haze that brooded over the midsummer sea.
There perhaps was an indication of what the decision would be, yet there was no certainty.

At home there was official silence, and from abroad, apart from the three vital facts, came but the quacking of rumour, report after report, each contradicting the other.
Then suddenly came certainty, a rainbow set in the intolerable cloud.

On Monday afternoon, when the House of Commons met, all parties were known to have sunk their private differences and to be agreed on one point that should take precedence of all other questions.

Germany should not, with England's consent, violate the neutrality of Belgium.