“Well, there we are—­such as we are,” Julian concluded.  “There is no one left except me.”

“Then tell me all about yourself,” she suggested.  “Really, when I come to think of it, considering the length of our conversations, you have been remarkably reticent.  You are the youngest of the family, are you not?  How many brothers are there?”

“There were four,” he told her.  “Henry was killed at Ypres last year.  Guy is out there still.  Richard is a Brigadier.”

“And you?”

“I am a barrister by profession, but I went out with the first Inns of Court lot for a little amateur soldiering and lost part of my foot at Mons. Since then I have been indulging in the unremunerative and highly monotonous occupation of censoring.”

“Monotonous indeed, I should imagine,” she agreed.  “You spend your time reading other people’s letters, do you not, just to be sure that there are no communications from the enemy?”

“Precisely,” he assented.  “We discover ciphers and all sorts of things.”

“What brainy people you must be!”

“We are, most of us.”

“Do you do anything else?”

“Well, I’ve given up censoring for the present,” he confided.  “I am going back to my profession.”

“As a barrister?”

“Just so.  I might add that I do a little hack journalism.”

“How modest!” she murmured.  “I suppose you write the leading articles for the Times!”

“For a very young lady,” Julian observed impressively, “you have marvellous insight.  How did you guess my secret?”

“I am better at guessing secrets than you are,” she retorted a little insolently.

He was silent for some moments.  The faint curve of her lips had again given him almost a shock.

“Have you a brother?” he asked abruptly.

“No.  Why?”

“Because I met some one quite lately—­within the last few hours, as a matter of fact—­with a mouth exactly like yours.”

“But what a horrible thing!” she exclaimed, drawing out a little mirror from the bag by her side and gazing into it.  “How unpleasant to have any one else going about with a mouth exactly like one’s own!  No, I never had a brother, Mr. Orden, or a sister, and, as you may have heard, I am an enfant mechante.  I live in London, I model very well, and I talk very bad sociology.  As I think I told you, I know your anarchist friend, Miles Furley.”

“I shouldn’t call Furley an anarchist,” protested Julian.

“Well, he is a Socialist.  I admit that we are rather lax in our definitions.  You see, there is just one subject, of late years, which has brought together the Socialists and the Labour men, the Syndicalists and the Communists, the Nationalists and the Internationalists.  All those who work for freedom are learning breadth.  If they ever find a leader, I think that this dear, smug country of yours may have to face the greatest surprise of its existence.”