There was a silence, prolonged, curious, in a sense thrilling.  A girl of wonderful appearance had risen to her feet and was looking eagerly towards him.  She was wearing the plain black dress of a working woman, whose clumsy folds inadequately concealed a figure of singular beauty and strength.  Her cheeks were colourless; her eyes large and deep, and of a soft shade of grey, filled just now with the half wondering, half worshipping expression of a pilgrim who has reached the Mecca of her desires.  Her hair—­her shabby hat lay upon the table—­was dark and glossy.  Her arms were a little outstretched.  Her lips, unusually scarlet against the pallor of her face, were parted.  Her whole attitude was one of quivering eagerness.  Maraton stood and looked at her in wonder.  The little cloud of sentiment in which he had been moving, perhaps, made him more than ever receptive to the impressions which she seemed to create.  Both the girl herself and her pose were splendidly allegorical.  She stood there for the great things of life.

“I would not go away,” she cried softly.  “They forbade me to stay, but I came back.  I am Julia Thurnbrein.  I have waited so long.”

Maraton stepped towards her and took her hands.

“I am glad,” he said.  “It is fitting that you should be one of the first to welcome me.  You have done a great work, Julia Thurnbrein.”

“And you,” she murmured passionately, still clasping his hands, “you a far greater one!  Ever since I understood, I have longed for this meeting.  It is you who will become the world’s deliverer.”

Maraton led her gently back to the chair in which she had been sitting.

“Now we must talk,” he declared.  “Sit opposite to me there.”

He struck a match and lit the lamp of a little coffee machine which stood upon the table.  She sprang eagerly to her feet.

“Let me, please,” she begged.  “I understand those things.  Please let me make the coffee.”

He laughed and, going to the cabinet, brought another of the old blue china cups and saucers.  With very deft fingers she manipulated the machine.  Presently, when her task was finished, she sat back in her chair, her coffee cup in her hand, her great eyes fixed upon him.  She had the air of a person entirely content.

“So you are Julia Thurnbrein.”

“And you,” she replied, still with that note of suppressed yet passionate reverence in her tone, “are Maraton.”

He smiled.

“The women workers of the world owe you a great deal,” he said.

“But it is so little that one can do,” she answered, quivering with pleasure at his words.  “One needs inspiration, direction.  Now that you have come, it will be different; it will be wonderful!”

She leaned towards him, and once more Maraton was conscious of the splendid mobility of her trembling body.  She was a revelation to him—­a modern Joan of Arc.

“Remember that I am no magician,” he warned her.