"No, no, my dear; you're excited and tired. It's just a little sentiment. . . . Oliver, I don't think I would say that kind of thing before her."
"But she hears it everywhere now."
"No, she doesn't. Remember she hardly ever goes out. Besides, she hates it. After all, she was brought up a Catholic."
Oliver nodded, and lay back again, looking dreamily out.
"Isn't it astonishing the way in which suggestion lasts? She can't get it out of her head, even after fifty years. Well, watch her, won't you? . . . By the way . . ."
"Yes?"
"There's a little more news from the East. They say Felsenburgh's running the whole thing now. The Empire is sending him everywhere—Tobolsk, Benares, Yakutsk—everywhere; and he's been to Australia."
Mabel sat up briskly.
"Isn't that very hopeful?"
"I suppose so. There's no doubt that the Sufis are winning; but for how long is another question. Besides, the troops don't disperse."
"And Europe?"
"Europe is arming as fast as possible. I hear we are to meet the Powers next week at Paris. I must go."
"Your arm, my dear?"
"My arm must get well. It will have to go with me, anyhow."
"Tell me some more."
"There is no more. But it is just as certain as it can be that this is the crisis. If the East can be persuaded to hold its hand now, it will never be likely to raise it again. It will
