"Where, if I may ask?"

"To my own country."

"America."

"Yes."

"It is very large," irrelevantly. "I remember--of course, you are an
American; I--I have hardly realized it; we, we Australians are not so
unlike you."

"Perhaps," irrelevantly on his part, "because your country, also, is--"

"Big," said the girl. Her hands moved slightly. "Are--are you going to
remain there? In America, I mean?"

He expected to; John Steele spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he could
trust himself now. The interview was just a short, perfunctory one; it
would soon be over; this he repeated to himself.

"But--your friends--here?" Her lips half-veiled a tremulous little
smile.

"My friends!" Something flashed in his voice, went, leaving him very
quiet. "I am afraid I have not made many while in London." Her eyes
lifted slightly, fell. "Call it the homing instinct!" he went on with a
laugh. "The desire once more to become part and parcel of one's native
land; to become a factor, however small, in its activities."