And it seemed to me a kind of disloyalty to those defenders of ours that Muriel should smile upon the German sailor when he told her in that ingratiating tone: "I regret that our countries are at war."
The retort rushed into my mind: "I hope you'll all be made to regret it a lot worse before the end!"
But I did not speak.
Muriel said lightly and fluently: "I regret it, too! War becomes such a bore, after so long! Really, I do not know what we began fighting for, and I don't think that England wants to go on any more than Germany——"
Here I could not help putting in, indignantly, in English: "Oh! How can you say these things! To a German! Oh, Muriel——"
Before I said more, another voice called her name—sharply, too.
"Muriel!"
It was the voice of Captain Holiday.
Standing engrossed in hearing Muriel's talk with the prisoner, we had scarcely noticed the sound that had broken into it—the wheels of the light dog-cart that had driven up the lane behind the hedge. In the dog-cart sat Dick Holiday driving; his friend, Colonel Fielding, was beside him.
He jumped down as Dick Holiday pulled up the horse.