Her blue eyes were suddenly soft. She looked across towards him wistfully.
“Dear,” she whispered, “things will be altered with you now. I am not fit to be the wife of an English peer—I am not noble.”
He laughed.
“I am afraid,” he assured her, “that I am democrat enough to think you one of the noblest women on earth. Why should I not? Your life itself has been a study in devotion. The modern virtues seem almost to ignore patriotism, yet the love of one’s country is a splendid thing. But don’t you think, Louise, that we have done our work—that it is time to think of ourselves?”
She gave him her hand.
“Let us see,” she said. “Let us wait for a little time and see what comes.”
That night another proof of the popular feeling, absolutely spontaneous, broke out in one of the least expected places. Louise was encored for her wonderful solo in a modern opera of bellicose trend, and instead of repeating it she came alone on the stage after a few minutes’ absence, dressed in Servian national dress. For a short time the costume was not recognized. Then the music—the national hymn of Servia, and the recollection of her parentage, brought the thing home to the audience. They did not even wait for her to finish. In the middle of her song the applause broke like a crash of thunder. From the packed gallery to the stalls they cheered her wildly, madly. A dozen times she came before the curtain. It seemed impossible that they would ever let her go. Directly she turned to leave the stage, the uproar broke out again. The manager at last insisted upon it that she should speak a few words. She stood in the centre of the stage amid a silence as complete as the previous applause had been unanimous. Her voice reached easily to every place in the House.
“I thank you all very much,” she said. “I am very happy indeed to be in London, because it is the capital city of the most generous country in the world—the country that is always ready to protect and help her weaker neighbors. I am a Servian, and I love my country, and therefore,” she added, with a little break in her voice,—“therefore I love you all.”
It was nearly midnight before the audience was got rid of, and the streets of London had not been so impassable for years. Crowds made their way to the front of Buckingham Palace and on to the War Office, where men were working late. Everything seemed to denote that the spirit of the country was roused: The papers next morning made immense capital of the incident, and for the following twenty-four hours suspense throughout the country was almost at fever height. It was known that the Cabinet Council had been sitting for six hours. It was known, too, that without the least commotion, with scarcely any movements of ships that could be called directly threatening, the greatest naval force which the world had ever known was assembling off Dover. The stock markets were wildly excited. Laverick, back again in his office, found that his return to his accustomed haunts occasioned scarcely any comment. More startling events were shaping themselves. His own remarkable adventure remained, curiously enough, almost undiscussed.
He left the office shortly before his usual time, notwithstanding the rush of business, and drove at once to the little house in Theobald Square. Zoe was lying on the sofa, still white, but eager to declare that the pain had gone and that she was no longer suffering.