Those were the transition days in England.The people were slowlyawaking to the magnitude of the thing that was happening to them.Certain elements the press, long under political dominion, were preparing to come out for a coalition ministry.The question of high-explosive shells as against shrapnel was bitterly fought, some of the men at home standing fast for shrapnel, as valuable against, German artillery as a garden hose.Men coming back from the Front were pleading for real help, not men only, not Red Cross, not food and supplies, but for something more competent than mere man power to hold back the deluge.
But over it all was that surface cheerfulness, that best-foot-forward attitude of London.And Sara Lee saw only that, and lost faith.She had come far to help.But here was food in plenty and bands playing and smiling men in uniform drinking tea and playing for a little.That, too, Sara Lee was to understand later; but just then she did not.At home there was more surface depression.The atrocities, the plight of the Belgians, the honor list in the Illustrated London News - that was the war to Sara Lee.And here!
But later on, down in a crowded dark little room, things were different.She was one of a long line, mostly women.They were unhappy and desolate enough, God knows.They sat or stood with a sort of weary resignation.Now and then a short heavy man with an upcurled mustache caine out and took in one or two.The door closed.And overhead the band played monotonously.
It was after seven when Sara Lee's turn came.The heavy-set man spoke to her in French, but he failed to use a single one of the words she had memorized.
"Don't you speak any English?" she asked helplessly.
"I do; but not much," he replied.Though his French had been rapid he spoke English slowly."How can we serve you, mademoiselle?""I don't want any assistance.I - I want to help, if I can." "Here?""In France.Or Belgium." He shrugged his shoulders.
"We have many offers of help.What we need, mademoiselle, is notworkers.We have, at our base hospital, already many English nurses." "I am not a nurse.""I am sorry.The whole world is sorry for Belgium, and many would work.What we need " - he shrugged his shoulders again -"is food, clothing, supplies for our brave little soldiers."Sara Lee looked extremely small and young.The Belgian sat down on a chair and surveyed her carefully.
"You English are doing a - a fine work for us," he observed."We are grateful.But of course the" - he hesitated -" the pulling up of an entire people - it is colossal.""But I am not English," said Sara Lee."And I have a little money.I want to make soup for your wounded men at a railway station or - any place.I can make good soup.And I shall have money each month to buy what I need."Only then was Sara Lee admitted to the crowded little room.
Long afterward, when the lights behind the back drop had gone down and Sara Lee was back again in her familiar setting, one of the clearest pictures she retained of that amazing interlude was of that crowded little room in the Savoy, its single littered desk, its two typewriters creating an incredible din, a large gentleman in a dark-blue military cape seeming to fill the room.And in corners and off stage, so to speak, perhaps a half dozen men, watching her curiously.
The conversation was in French, and Sara Lee's acquaintance of the passage acted as interpreter.It was only when Sara Lee found that a considerable discussion was going on in which she had no part that she looked round and saw her friend of two nights before and of the little donkey.He was watching her intently, and when he caught her eye he bowed.
Now men, in Sara Lee's mind, had until now been divided into the ones at home, one's own kind, the sort who married one's friends or oneself, the kind who called their wives "mother" after the first baby came, and were easily understood, plain men, decent and God-fearing and self- respecting; and the men of that world outside America, who wereforeigners.One might like foreigners, but they were outsiders.
So there was no self-consciousness in Sara Lee's bow and smile.Later on Henri was to find that lack of self and *** consciousness one of the maddening mysteries about Sara Lee.Perhaps he never quite understood it.But always he respected it.
More conversation, in an increasing staccato.Short contributions from the men crowded into corners.Frenzied beating of the typewriting machines, and overhead and far away the band.There was no air in the room.Sara Lee was to find out a great deal later on about the contempt of the Belgians for air.She loosened Aunt Harriet's neckpiece.So far Henri had not joined in the discussion.But now he came forward and spoke.Also, having finished, he interpreted to Sara Lee.
"They are most grateful," he explained."It is a - a practical idea, mademoiselle.If you were in Belgium " - he smiled rather mirthlessly -" if you were already in the very small part of Belgium remaining to us, we could place you very usefully.But - the British War Office is most careful, just now.You understand - there are reasons."Sara Lee flushed indignantly.
"They can watch me if they want to," she said."What trouble can I make? I've only just landed.You - you'd have to go a good ways to find any one who knows less than I do about the war.""There is no doubt of that," he said, unconscious of offense."But the War Office - " He held out his hands.
Sara Lee, who had already caught the British "a" and was rather overdoing it, had a wild impulse to make the same gesture.It meant so much.
More conversation.Evidently more difficulties - but with Henri now holding the center of the stage and speaking rapidly.The heavy-set man retired and read letters under an electric lamp.The band upstairs was having dinner.And Henri argued and wrangled.He was quite passionate.The man in the military cape listened and smiled.And at last he nodded.
Henri turned to Sara Lee.
"You Americans are all brave," he said."You like - what is it you say?
