“Who would not end it if they could?” cried Marco, quite fiercely.

“But men like your father, men who are Samavians, must think night and day about it as I do,” she impetuously insisted.  “You see, I cannot help pouring my thoughts out even to a boy—­because he is a Samavian.  Only Samavians care.  Samavia seems so little and unimportant to other people.  They don’t even seem to know that the blood she is pouring forth pours from human veins and beating human hearts.  Men like your father must think, and plan, and feel that they must—­must find a way.  Even a woman feels it.  Even a boy must.  Stefan Loristan cannot be sitting quietly at home, knowing that Samavian hearts are being shot through and Samavian blood poured forth.  He cannot think and say nothing!”

Marco started in spite of himself.  He felt as if his father had been struck in the face.  How dare she say such words!  Big as he was, suddenly he looked bigger, and the beautiful lady saw that he did.

“He is my father,” he said slowly.

She was a clever, beautiful person, and saw that she had made a great mistake.

“You must forgive me,” she exclaimed.  “I used the wrong words because I was excited.  That is the way with women.  You must see that I meant that I knew he was giving his heart and strength, his whole being, to Samavia, even though he must stay in London.”

She started and turned her head to listen to the sound of some one using the latch-key and opening the front door.  The some one came in with the heavy step of a man.

“It is one of the lodgers,” she said.  “I think it is the one who lives in the third floor sitting-room.”

“Then you won’t be alone when I go,” said Marco.  “I am glad some one has come.  I will say good-morning.  May I tell my father your name?”

“Tell me that you are not angry with me for expressing myself so awkwardly,” she said.

“You couldn’t have meant it.  I know that,” Marco answered boyishly.  “You couldn’t.”

“No, I couldn’t,” she repeated, with the same emphasis on the words.

She took a card from a silver case on the table and gave it to him.

“Your father will remember my name,” she said.  “I hope he will let me see him and tell him how you took care of me.”

She shook his hand warmly and let him go.  But just as he reached the door she spoke again.

“Oh, may I ask you to do one thing more before you leave me?” she said suddenly.  “I hope you won’t mind.  Will you run up-stairs into the drawing-room and bring me the purple book from the small table?  I shall not mind being alone if I have something to read.”

“A purple book?  On a small table?” said Marco.

“Between the two long windows,” she smiled back at him.

The drawing-room of such houses as these is always to be reached by one short flight of stairs.

Marco ran up lightly.