“At that a cloud passed over Mara’s face.
“‘Oh, Gavrilo!’ she cried impatiently, ‘shall we never hear of anything but the Serb race? Is there nothing else in the world? Must that come before your thought of your friend, here’—indicating me—‘before your thought of me, of the children we hope to have, of everything? Must you have Serbian freedom on your bread in place of cheese, and in your glass in place of wine? Sometimes I think your eyes shine more brightly when you speak of our race than when you call me doucho—my soul. I ask myself, is it indeed the soul of Mara that he loves, or is it the soul of the race?’
“‘Mara, my dear child,’ I put in, ‘I believe you are jealous.’
“‘Of whom, pray?’ she demanded, turning upon me and flinging her head back proudly.
“‘Not of an individual,’ I answered, ‘but of a people.’
“‘Perhaps it is true,’ she returned with a shrug. ‘Well, what of it?’
“‘Only this: that a woman with nothing more concrete than a whole race to be jealous of is in no very sad plight.’
“‘But I tell you I demand to be loved for myself!’ Mara flashed back.
“Gavrilo sighed deeply, as though at the hopelessness of making her understand his point of view. Then, mournfully, he hummed:
“‘Thou art the dearest part of Serbia to me;
But after all thou art but a part, even as I am a part;
And it is Serbia, always Serbia—’