"Yes, I know, I know. He has been weak and foolish. He is so—young." Her voice was full of a piteous apology. "And perhaps it was my fault—a little, at least. But I can’t let him go, Robert. Whatever else he is, he is my brother, and I am so alone." "Alone!" He looked at her aghast. "What do you mean?" "Don’t you understand? It’s so easy—so simple. I am a stranger here. I am hated and distrusted. I suppose it was inevitable. In a few days you will have gone, and if Miles goes too I shall have no one left——" "Nora!" he interrupted sternly. "There is your husband." "Wolff—yes, there is Wolff. Robert, they say there will be war. Is it true?" He frowned with perplexity. For the moment he could not follow her thought, and her question seemed to him erratic and purposeless. "It is possible. For my part, I hope it may come to that. Things have been drifting to a crisis for a long time, and we must assert ourselves once and for all. These beggars are beginning to suspect us of fear or incompetence, and the sooner they are disillusioned the better." Suddenly he caught a glimpse of her face, and stopped short. "Nora, what is the matter?" "You forget," she said hoarsely. "I am not English any more." They walked on in silence, Arnold too startled and overwhelmed by the conflict which she in one short sentence had revealed to him to speak or think. "I was a thoughtless fool," he said at last. "For the moment I could not imagine you as anything but my own countrywoman. Now I see; and it is terrible for you—terrible. Even marriage cannot blot out one’s nationality." They had reached the door of the Arnims’ flat, and she stopped and faced him with wide-open, desperate eyes. "Nothing can!" she said. "And I know this—if there is war it will break my heart, or drive me mad. I don’t know which." Never before had she felt so drawn to him by all the ties of friendship and blood, and yet she went up the steps without a word of farewell. Arnold understood, and looked after her with a tender pity. He believed that he had crushed all passion out of his heart, but that a love remained which was infinitely greater, purified, as it seemed, from the dross of selfish desire. He felt as he stood there that he would willingly have given his life to save her from the threatening struggle, and yet—such is the irony of things—in that same moment he unconsciously brought her even deeper into the complicated tangle of her life. The door had opened, and a short, plump little woman stood on the threshold. She saw Nora, bowed, hesitated as though she would have spoken; then her eyes fell on Arnold, and she passed on down the steps with a cold, blank stare. "Who was she, I wonder?" Arnold thought indifferently. "What was the matter?"