“You—­are going away?” She was the first to speak.  Her voice was, in the least, uncertain.

“To-morrow,” without looking at her.

“Where, if I may ask?”

“To my own country.”

“America.”

“Yes.”

“It is very large,” irrelevantly.  “I remember—­of course, you are an American; I—­I have hardly realized it; we, we Australians are not so unlike you.”

“Perhaps,” irrelevantly on his part, “because your country, also, is—­”

“Big,” said the girl.  Her hands moved slightly.  “Are—­are you going to remain there?  In America, I mean?”

He expected to; John Steele spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he could trust himself now.  The interview was just a short, perfunctory one; it would soon be over; this he repeated to himself.

“But—­your friends—­here?” Her lips half-veiled a tremulous little smile.

“My friends!” Something flashed in his voice, went, leaving him very quiet.  “I am afraid I have not made many while in London.”  Her eyes lifted slightly, fell.  “Call it the homing instinct!” he went on with a laugh.  “The desire once more to become part and parcel of one’s native land; to become a factor, however small, in its activities.”

“I don’t think you—­will be—­a small factor,” said the girl in a low tone.

He seemed not to hear.  “To take up the fight where I left it, when a boy—­”

“The fight!” The words had a far-away sound; perhaps she saw once more, in fancy, an island, the island.  Life was for strong people, striving people.  And he had fought and striven many times; hardest of all, with himself.  She stole a glance at his face; he was looking down; the silence lengthened.  He waited; she seemed to find nothing else to say.  He too did not speak; she found herself walking toward the door.

“Good-by.”  The scene seemed the replica of a scene somewhere else, sometime before.  Ah, in the garden, amid flowers, fragrance.  There were no flowers here—­

“Good-by.”  He spoke in a low voice.  “As I told Captain Forsythe, you—­you need not feel concern about the story ever coming out—­”

“Concern?  What do you mean?”

“Your telegram to Captain Forsythe, the fear that brought you to London—­”

“The—­you thought that?”—­swiftly.

“What else?”

The indignation in her eyes met the surprise in his.

“Thank you,” she said; “thank you for that estimate of me!”

“Miss Wray!” Contrition, doubt, amazement mingled in his tone.

“Good-by,” she said coldly.

And suddenly, as one sees through a rift in the clouds the clear light, he understood.

* * * * *

“You will go with me?  You!”

“Why, as for that—­”

Fleece of gold!  Heaven of blue eyes!  They were so near!

“And if I did, you who misinterpret motives, would think—­”