"What did I tell you?" said another voice. "I told you they'd cleared
the corner at the bottom of St. James's Street for a gun. Now they've
got her going. Good for us they're shooting southwards."
Christine was shaking on G.J.'s arm.
"It's all right! It's all right!" he murmured compassionately, and she
tightened her clutch on him in thanks.
He looked hard at the point of light, which might have been anything.
The changing forms of thin clouds continually baffled the vision.
"By god!" shouted the first voice. "She's hit. See her stagger? She's
hit. She'll blaze up in a moment. One down last week. Another this.
Look at her now. She's afire."
The group gave a weak cheer.
Then the clouds cleared for an instant and revealed a crescent. G.J.
said:
"That's the moon, you idiots. It's not a Zeppelin."
Even as he spoke he wondered, and regretted, that he should be calling
them idiots. They were complete strangers to him. The group vanished,
crestfallen, round another corner. G.J. laughed to Christine. Then the
noise of guns was multiplied. That he was with Christine in the midst
of an authentic air-raid could no longer be doubted. He was conscious
of the wine he had drunk at the club.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235