“Men,” she said.
There was tragedy in her face; and Daniel, in his simple wisdom, guessed that what she needed was the friendship of a man who had no ulterior motive. He looked along the street, and, seeing that there was a large French café on the opposite side, asked her whether she would care to go in there and have coffee with him.
A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY—BURNING SANDS
She hesitated for a moment; but when he had explained that he had no more than half an hour to spare, and that he could not employ the time better than by talking to her, she crossed the street with him and entered the café.
“Now tell me what your trouble is,” he said, when they were sipping their coffee at a table in the almost deserted saloon.
“O, it is nothing,” she replied. “I suppose I am ill. I have—how do you say?—the ’ump, eh? If I had the courage I should suicide myself; but the priest he tell me that the little devils in hell are men, and the angels in heaven are men: so you see I cannot escape from men.”
“Oh, men are not so bad,” he told her. “You, of course, see them under rather startling circumstances; and, if I may say so, you can’t always judge of what a man is by looking at a subaltern in the Guards.”
She laughed. “But they tell me they are the élite of England.”
“Yes, poor lads,” he answered; “but it’s not their fault that they think so: it’s due to other men being so bashful.”