"Yes."
"It is very large," irrelevantly. "I remember--of course, you are an American; I--I have hardly realized it; we, we Australians are not so unlike you."
"Perhaps," irrelevantly on his part, "because your country, also, is--"
"Big," said the girl. Her hands moved slightly. "Are--are you going to remain there? In America, I mean?"
He expected to; John Steele spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he could trust himself now. The interview was just a short, perfunctory one; it would soon be over; this he repeated to himself.
"But--your friends--here?" Her lips half-veiled a tremulous little smile.
"My friends!" Something flashed in his voice, went, leaving him very quiet. "I am afraid I have not made many while in London." Her eyes lifted slightly, fell. "Call it the homing instinct!" he went on with a laugh. "The desire once more to become part and parcel of one's native land; to become a factor, however small, in its activities."
"I don't think you--will be--a small factor," said the girl in a low tone.
He seemed not to hear. "To take up the fight where I left it, when a boy--"
"The fight!" The words had a far-away sound; perhaps she saw once more, in fancy, an island, the island. Life was for strong people, striving people. And he had fought and striven many times; hardest of all, with himself. She stole a glance at his face; he was looking down; the silence lengthened. He waited; she seemed to find nothing else to say. He too did not speak; she found herself walking toward the door.