Frank had not recurred to the question he had asked on Presidio Hill.  But out of it had come an unspoken compact, a comradeship of spirit that was very sweet.

They stood one day on the margin of Fine Arts Lagoon, gazing down at the marvelous reflections of the great dome and its pillared colonnade.  “Frank,” the girl said almost in a whisper, “I believe that Love is God’s heart, beating, beating ... through the Whole of Life.”  He turned and saw that her eyes were radiant.  “And I think that when we feel its rhythm in us, it’s like a call.  A call to—­”

“What?” he asked abashed.

“Service....  Frank,” she faced him questioningly, half fearful.  “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?  I—­I’m going away.”

She expected protest, exclamation.  Instead he asked her, very quietly:  “To Europe, Aleta?  The Red Cross?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised.  “How did you know?”

“I—­I’m going, myself.  As a stretcher bearer.”

“Then—­” her eyes were stars, “you’ve felt it, too?”

He nodded.

* * * * *

On the deck of an outbound steamer stood two figures.  The sky was gray.  Drifts of fog hung plume-like over Alcatraz, veiled the Exposition domes and turrets in a mystic glory.  Sometimes it was like a great white nothingness; then, as if by magic, Color, Forms and Beauty leaped forth like some startling vision from a Land of Make Believe.

The woman at the stern-rail stretched forth her arms.  “Goodbye,” her words were like a song, a song of heartbreak, mixed with exultation.  “Goodbye, Oh my City of Dreams!”

“We will come back,” said the man shakily.  “We will come with new peace in our hearts.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, “but it will not matter.  San Francisco will go on, big, generous, unafraid in its sins and virtues.  Oh, Frank, I love it, don’t you?  I want it to be the greatest city in the world!”

He made no answer but he caught her hand and pressed it.  The fog came down about them like a mantle and shut them in.