"I'd advise you to sit a little further on—I'm not very nice."
Margaret never grasped the meaning of the words; the voice was all she heard. It made her heart bound, and her senses reel; her bewilderment was overwhelming.
Some instinct made the soldier swing right round; he had been sitting with his broad back turned to the vacant seat, which Margaret still occupied. They faced each other; the soldier was Michael.
Under his ardent gaze Margaret paled pitifully and made a valiant effort to speak, to collect her thoughts. All that came from her trembling lips were the prosaic words, rather timidly spoken:
"Is it you, Michael?"
They seemed to content Michael and tell him a thousand things which dazed and intoxicated him. His surprise was even greater than Margaret's.
"Yes, it is me, Meg," he said. "Thank God we've met!"
For Margaret, in one moment all the long months of doubt and pride were wiped out. Michael's eyes had banished them. Her characteristic courage and her self-possession returned. She put her hand on the top of Michael's, the one which held his rifle. Her touch thrilled the soldier home from the Front; it travelled through his veins like an electric current. Margaret's eyes had dropped; now they met her lover's again.
The train in its narrow channel under the city was making such a noise that it was impossible to hear even a loud voice above its hideous rattle. There are few noises more devastating to conversation than the awful roar of a London tube-railway. But Love speaks with an eloquence which no noise can drown; its sympathy and passion carry it far above the din and noise of battle. Margaret and Michael knew it well. If Love depended upon words, what a poor cold thing it would be! No quarrels would ever be settled, no journeys end in lovers' meetings.
Michael moved the hand which Margaret clasped. It was hard to do it, but he felt compelled to.