[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-----

[The shouting of newspaper boys grows louder and their cries, passionately vehement, clash into each other and obscure each word.  His head goes up to listen; her hand tightens within his arm—­she too is listening.  The cries come nearer, hoarser, more shrill and clamorous; the empty moonlight outside seems suddenly crowded with figures, footsteps, voices, and a fierce distant cheering.  “Great victory—­great victory!  Official!  British!  ’Eavy defeat of the ’Uns!  Many thousand prisoners!  ’Eavy defeat!” It speeds by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful joy; he leans far out, waving his cap and cheering like a madman; the night seems to flutter and vibrate and answer.  He turns to rush down into the street, strikes against something soft, and recoils.  The girl stands with hands clenched, and face convulsed, panting.  All confused with the desire to do something, he stoops to kiss her hand.  She snatches away her fingers, sweeps up the notes he has put down, and holds them out to him.]

Girl.  Take them—­I will not haf your English money—­take them.