But it
would not be in our time: it was too big. A way out would be found.
"Is there no hope?" asked Mary.
"Yes," he answered. "The hope that a miracle may happen. The Navy's got
its orders."
And suddenly--as years before in a Paris music hall--there leapt to life
within Joan's brain a little impish creature that took possession of her.
She hoped the miracle would not happen. The little impish creature
within her brain was marching up and down beating a drum. She wished he
would stop a minute. Someone was trying to talk to her, telling her she
ought to be tremendously shocked and grieved. He--or she, or whatever it
was that was trying to talk to her, appeared concerned about Reason and
Pity and Universal Brotherhood and Civilization's clock--things like
that. But the little impish drummer was making such a din, she couldn't
properly hear. Later on, perhaps, he would get tired; and then she would
be able to listen to this humane and sensible person, whoever it might
be.
Mary argued that England could and should keep out of it; but Greyson was
convinced it would be impossible, not to say dishonourable: a sentiment
that won the enthusiastic approval of the little drummer in Joan's brain.
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