“Are you laughing at me?” Beatrice remained quite serene. “Yes, please; I will have some cream.”
“Die Anna writes zat zere is only a wee-little milk for each child in Berlin; not enough to keep zem alive, she say.”
“Let zem die!” cried Mr Redbury, with a ferocity that was really foreign to his nature—only he was afraid. “All the better. Let zem all die. Zey only grow up to be Cherman soldiers fighting against humanity.”
Nell flashed out: “Oh, father, how can you?—little soft babies——” and suddenly plunged back into silence, marvelling at her own temerity.
David as usual supported her in rebellion. “Not all German babies grow up to be German soldiers. Some grow up to be English soldiers” ... his ironic downward glance at his own uniform emphasized the remark.
“If Con were here, young ’un, he’d lick you for that,” and Hardy sent a message of strong disapproval over his glasses at his cadet brother.
“Con’s different. However keen he may be on his regiment and England and all that, he never talks fatuous drivel about wanting all the German babies to die.”
“Vatuous trivel ...” shouted Mr Redbury.
“Dear me,” murmured Miss Swinley.
“I’m sure David doesn’t mean to be rude, father,” Beatrice put in mildly. “We none of us want babies to die, but of course it’s nicer if it isn’t English babies.”