seen me at
home, never seen me in London; he won't be able to imagine me. It's all
in the past, only the past--for both of us. Is there anybody so
unhappy?' And the town's voices-wheels, and passing feet, whistles,
talk, laughter--seemed to answer callously: 'Not one.' She looked at her
wrist-watch; like his, it had luminous hands: 'Half-past ten' was
greenishly imprinted there. She got up in dismay. They would think she
was lost, or run over, or something silly! She could not find an empty
taxi, and began to walk, uncertain of her way at night. At last she
stopped a policeman, and said:

"Which is the way towards Bloomsbury, please? I can't find a taxi." The
man looked at her, and took time to think it over; then he said:

"They're linin' up for the theatres," and looked at her again. Something
seemed to move in his mechanism:

"I'm goin' that way, miss. If you like, you can step along with me."
Noel stepped along.

"The streets aren't what they ought to be," the policeman said. "What
with the darkness, and the war turning the girls heads--you'd be
surprised the number of them that comes out. It's the soldiers, of
course."

Noel felt her cheeks burning.

"I daresay you wouldn't have noticed it," the policeman went on: "but
this war's a funny thing. The streets are gayer and more crowded at
night than I've ever seen them; it's a fair picnic all the time. What
we're goin' to settle down to when peace comes, I don't know. I suppose
you find it quiet enough up your way, miss?"

"Yes," said Noel; "quite quiet."

"No soldiers up in Bloomsbury. You got anyone in the Army, miss?"

Noel nodded.

"Ah! It's anxious times for ladies. What with the Zeps, and their
brothers and all in France, it's 'arassin'. I've lost a brother meself,
and I've got a boy out there in the Garden of Eden; his mother carries on
dreadful about him. What we shall think of it when it's all over, I
can't tell. These Huns are a wicked tough lot!"

Noel looked at him; a tall man, regular and orderly, with one of those
perfectly decent faces so often seen in the London police.

"I'm sorry you've lost someone," she said. "I haven't lost anyone very
near, yet."

"Well, let's 'ope you won't, miss. These times make you feel for others,
an' that's something. I've noticed a great change in folks you'd never
think would feel for anyone. And yet I've seen some wicked things too;
we do, in the police. Some of these English wive