Young off.  You can’t tell how good it is to be alive till you’re facing death.  You don’t live till then.  And when a whole lot 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 unmoving.  He looks round into her face.  In spite of make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching beauty.

Young off. [With an outburst] No; we don’t only love ourselves; there is more.  I can’t explain, but there’s something great; there’s kindness--and--and-----