“I wonder how they are taking it in America?” Fallows mused.
“Doubtless as an opportunity for world-trade,” said Peter.
“Oh, I hope not!” the exile said passionately. “There must be another America.”
Fallows placed his hands on Berthe's shoulders, looking down: “You make me think of a young woman I once knew,” he said. “Not that you look like her—but that you have the same zeal for something.... You are a very true daughter of your father—”
“You knew him?” she said huskily.
“We all knew him—we who dare to think we look ahead. When he died, his courage came to all of us. We were changed. If it had not been a pure and durable thing—his courage would have died with him. It is wonderful for me to be here with you. And this man loves you.”
It was not a question, just a fragmentary utterance of a fine moment. Fallows said it as a man who has passed on, and yet loves to study the lives and loves of younger men. Even to Mowbray the feeling came for an instant that he was part of the solution to which they gave themselves.
“I have not told him of my father. He does not know my name,” Berthe said. “But I am going to tell him—before he goes.”
“He is safe,” said Fallows. “I felt free with him—almost immediately—and that picture in the tea-cup!... Peter Mowbray, Peter Mowbray. It is a good name. And you are going out on the big story of the war for The States. You will see great things—best of all with the Russian columns. There will be an Austerlitz every day—a Liaoyang every day. I was in Manchuria with a man who made that his battle. I wonder if he will come out this time—to find how his dream of brotherhood is faring? God, how he took to that dream! He will be a Voice—”
They were standing. Fallows suddenly reached for his cap. “I'll go out with you—just to get out. The room is too small for me to-night.”