I knew his face at once, but I could not think where I had seen it. It was not a face I had seen once or twice either. It was a familiar face, a face I had seen at different times, reflecting different moods, it was connected in my mind, at once strongly and vaguely, with long past hours, some happy and some troubled, and in those hours the owner of the face had played an active part. At this moment the face belonged to a Jewish soldier in the American uniform, but the background was anything but warlike. It was a quiet reading-room in East London, not unpicturesque, with the white-washed rafters and low ceiling, but beyond even the noise of the busy street. There was another American soldier in the room and the two began to talk. I could not help listening because the voice belonging to the face was a voice I knew, only whence? The next minute the words, 201“Palestine,” “colony,” caught my ear, followed by, “see it again.”