André passed his left hand carelessly over his fair hair. "Oh yes," he said, with very superior nonchalance. "There are four thousand of us. We shall have to take care of you women," he glanced with raised eyebrows at the small, admiring Mireille, "now that the other men have gone."
"Keep your arm quiet," said Cécile, "or I shall prick you."
"Where is your father?" asked Chérie. "Has he left, too?"
"Yes," said André. "He has been called out for duty in the Garde Civique. He is stationed on the Chaussée de Louvain, not far from Brussels."
"Isn't it all exciting?" cried Jeannette, jumping up and down.
"But against whom are we going to fight?" asked Mireille.
"We don't know yet," declared André. "Perhaps against the French; perhaps against the Germans."
"Perhaps against nobody," said Cécile, biting off the thread and patting the neatly-sewn armlet on her brother's sleeve.
"Perhaps against nobody," echoed André, with a boyish touch of ruefulness. "Nobody will dare to invade our land."