“When, in the summer of 1913, I arrived for one of my periodical visits, Gavrilo came rushing to my room, and seizing both my hands told me that he and Mara were now betrothed. He was then eighteen and she seventeen—for you understand, of course, that these dark South Europeans develop younger than our people do. Both families were pleased, and I felt that the dangers I had feared for Gavrilo were past, and was duly thankful. I went out and bought a necklace for Mara, and when I gave it to her, she and Gavrilo made me clasp it around her neck, and he said to her, very seriously: ‘Yes, and our dear friend shall be the godfather of our first child. Is it not so, Maro _doucho_?’ And Mara, taking me by the hand, told me it was quite true, and that she was going to love me as much as Gavrilo loved me, and that, moreover, they were going to have hundreds of children, and that every one of the children should love me too. It was all indescribably naïve and pretty until Gavrilo unfortunately added: ‘Yes, our children will love you, and they will love us, but most of all they will love the idea of a free Serb race.’ “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—_’ “But Mara would not let him finish. “‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘I detest that song! You know how I detest it!’ “Gavrilo looked at me and shook his head. ‘Oh, these women!’ he exclaimed. ‘What they do to one!’ “Then, gazing reflectively at Mara, he added in the tone of one attempting to be philosophical: ‘Well, when a little female looks as angelic as my Mara, naturally we expect her to think like an angel too.’