Solomon stirred heavily and looked up, flushing, her eyes avoiding the German arbours.
“Na, Solemn,” laughed Fräulein Pfaff.
“Oh well, of course, Fräulein.” Solomon sat in a crimson tide, bridling.
“Solomon likes not Germans.”
“Go on, Elsa,” rattled Bertha. “Germans are all right, me dear. I think it’s rather a lark when they sing out Engländerin. I always want to yell ‘Ya!’”
“Likewise ‘Boo!’ Come on, Mill, we’re all waiting.”
“Well, you know I don’t like it, Jimmie.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me forget I’m in Germany and only remember I’ve got to go back.”
“My hat, Mill, you’re a queer mixture!”