"Well," he said, finding all eyes turned on him, "I am going to London with the Journalist—if he is really going."
"All right, I am," was the reply.
"And from London I shall get to St. Petersburg. I have a dream that out of all this something may happen to Poland. If it does, I propose to be there. I'll be no good at holding a gun—I could never fire one. But if, by some miracle, there comes out of this any chance for the 'Fair Land of Poland' to crawl out, or be dragged out, from under the feet of the invader—well, I'll go home—and—and—"
He hesitated.
"And grow up with the country," shouted the Youngster. "Bully for you."
"I may only go back to fiddle over the ruins. But who knows? At all events, I'll go back and carry with me all that your country had done for three generations of my family. They'll need it."
"Well," said the Doctor, "that is all settled. Enough for to-night. We'll still have one or two, and it may be three days left together. Let us make the most of them. They will never come again."
"And to think what a lovely summer we had planned," sighed the Divorcée.
"Tush!" ejaculated the Doctor. "We had a lovely time all last year. As for this summer, I imagine that it has been far finer than what we planned. Anyway, let us be thankful that it was this summer that we all found one another again."
"Better go to bed," cried the Critic; "the Doctor is getting sentimental—a bad sign in an army surgeon."