"Why, it's London!" cried Marjorie. "I'd lost all track of time. Hadn't you, Leonard?"
"No," he answered laconically, slamming down the lid of the tea-basket.
But Marjorie squeezed up against him and gave a little laugh. "Supposing it could be the same man, Leonard," she said.
"What man?" asked Leonard, snapping the lock.
"Why, the man of the Helmet—the Dying Gaul—and my man I've been telling you about."
Leonard looked at her, and for some reason his eyes flinched. "What difference would that make? He was German," was all he said.
It was a sultry evening. Flowers were being sold in profusion on street corners. Hurdy-gurdies played war tunes in the gutter. The streets were filled with soldiers in khaki and florid civilians in their summer clothes. Suddenly she remembered a passage in the Bible that always seemed beautiful to her, but now it seemed to have been specially written for her:—
"Where thou goest, I will go, And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, And thy God, my God."
She walked as close to Leonard as she dared: "Thy people shall be my people, And thy God, my God."
The passers-by smiled at her and turned and stared after. "Awfully hard on a girl," they thought, touched by the rapt look on the young face.