The butler considered deferentially. "No, sir," he said, after mature reflection.
"You ought to be," said the American.
The butler carefully drew the window-curtains together. "Are you, sir?"
"No," said Craighouse with great energy; "but when I do marry it will be with some girl born in the United States of America."
Mr. Watkins drifted towards the door. "Your bath will be ready at six, and breakfast at six-thirty," he said.
What Mr. Watkins had taken for persiflage was in reality another American declaration of independence.
IX
It was late in March, 1918, that two American officers sat by the side of a road in France and watched a stream of refugees go by in an endless pageant of misery. Old men crawled along on bleeding, ill-shod feet; women were carrying grotesque bundles and leading absurd ponies that drew household goods on rickety carts; and there were girls, half-women, who bore infants in their arms, and who looked neither to right nor left, but followed on in mute fatigue and tearless agony.
Craighouse, who wore the badges of a captain, swore softly to himself. His companion bit his lip.
"I hear the Germans are smashing through everywhere," said the latter.