Paul Dampier leant back in the closed cab and would have drawn the girl to him.
She put both hands on his broad chest to hold him a little away from her.
"I want to ask you something," she began a little tremulously. "It's just—Is there going to be——"
"Well, what?" he asked, smiling close to her.
Of all things that he least expected came what the girl had to say.
"Is there going to be—a War, Paul?"
"A what?" he asked, thinking he had not heard aright.
She repeated it, tremulously. "A war. Real war."
"War?" he echoed, blankly, taken aback. He was silent from puzzled astonishment over her asking this, as they turned up Shaftesbury Avenue. They were held up outside the Hippodrome for some minutes. He was still silent. The taxi gave a jerk and went on. And she still waited for his reply. She had to remind him.
"Well," she said again, tremulous. "Is there going to be?"