“But we really aren't fighting them yet,” went on the other, plaintively. “Why should they blow up our factories? Oh, these dreadful, terrible Germans.” Then suddenly, in confusion: “I—I beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Carstairs smiled pleasantly. “That's all right, my dear. A good many of us suffer for the sins of the fathers. Besides, we are in the war, and have been for six months or more.”
“We all hate the Kaiser, don't we?” pleaded the younger woman.
Mrs. Carstairs pressed her arm. “None more so than those of us whose parents left Germany to escape such as he.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that.”
“Beg pardon,” said Peter the steward, at Mrs. Carstairs' elbow. “I think this is yours. You dropped it just now.”
“Thank you, Peter,” said she, taking the crumpled handkerchief he handed her. “I shan't drop it again,” she went on, smiling as she stuffed it securely in the gold mesh bag she was carrying.
“Peter is such a splendid man, isn't he?” said her young companion, lowering her voice. “So much more willing and agreeable than old Crosby. We're all so glad the change was made.”
“He is most efficient,” said Mrs. Carstairs.
The admirable Peter approached Mr. Carstairs and Zimmerlein, who were pouring drinks for themselves at the table.