"You've got it bad. Remember how you used to write poetry at college? Who is she, if I may ask?"
"The Honorable Betty Moore, at present the guest of her Highness, the Princess Hildegarde,"—with pardonable pride.
Max whistled. "You're a lucky beggar. One by one we turn traitor to our native land. A Britisher! I never should have believed it of you, of the man whose class declamation was on the fiery subject of patriotism. But is it all on one side?"
"I don't know, Max; sometimes I think so, and then I don't."
"How long have you known her?"
"Little more than a month."
"A month? Everything moves swiftly these days, except European railway cars."
"There's a romance, Max, but another besides her is concerned, and I can not tell you. Some day, when everything quiets down, I'll get you into a corner with a bottle, and you will find it worth while."
"The bottle?"
"Both."