ot of you
feel like that--and are ready to give their lives for each other,
it's worth all the rest of life put together.

[He stops, ashamed of such, sentiment before this girl, who
believes in nothing.]

GIRL. [Softly] How were you wounded, ni-ice boy?

YOUNG OFF. Attacking across open ground: four machine bullets got me
at one go off.

GIRL. Weren't you veree frightened when they ordered you to attack?

[He shakes his head and laughs.]

YOUNG OFF. It was great. We did laugh that morning. They got me
much too soon, though--a swindle.

GIRL. [Staring at him] You laughed?

YOUNG OFF. Yes. And what do you think was the first thing I was
conscious of next morning? My old Colonel bending over me and giving
me a squeeze of lemon. If you knew my Colonel you'd still believe in
things. There is something, you know, behind all this evil. After
all, you can only die once, and, if it's for your country--all the
better!

[Her face, in the moonlight, with, intent eyes touched up with
black, has a most strange, other-world look.]

GIRL. No; I believe in nothing, not even in my country. My heart is
dead.

YOUNG OFF. Yes; you think so, but it isn't, you know, or you
wouldn't have 'been crying when I met you.

GIRL. If it were not dead, do you think I could live my life-walking
the streets every night, pretending to like strange men; never
hearing a kind word; never talking, for fear I will be known for a
German? Soon I shall take to drinking; then I shall be "Kaput" veree
quick. You see, I am practical; I see things clear. To-night I am a
little emotional; the moon is funny, you know. But I live for myself
only, now. I don't care for anything or anybody.

YOUNG OFF. All the same; just now you were pitying your folk at
home, and prisoners and that.

GIRL. Yees; because they suffer. Those who suffer are like me--I
pity myself, that's all; I am different from your English women. I
see what I am doing; I do not let my mind become a turnip just
because I am no longer moral.

YOUNG OFF. Nor your heart either, for all you say.

GIRL. Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But all that about love
is 'umbog. We love ourselves, noting more.

At that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he gets up,
feeling stifled, and stands at the window. A newspaper boy some
way off is calling his wares. The GIRL's fingers slip between
his own, and stay unmov