“Oh, that's all right,” cried Carstairs carelessly. “You needn't punch me, dear. Zimmie 's as good an American as any of us. Don't think for a moment, Zimmie, old chap, that I include you in the gang I'd like to see sitting on that pile of shells over there.”
The man at the window turned, and smiled affably.
“Thanks, old man. Being, as you say, as good an American as any of you, I may be permitted to return the compliment. I shouldn't like to see Mrs. Carstairs sitting on that pile of shells.”
Carstairs flushed. An angry light leaped to his eyes, but it was banished almost instantly. Mrs. Carstairs herself replied.
“I can't imagine anything more distasteful,” she drawled.
“But Mrs. Carstairs isn't a German,” put in little Mr. Cribbs, somewhat tartly for him.
“You're always saying the wrong thing, Cribbs,—or the right thing at the wrong time,” said Carstairs. “Mrs. Carstairs is not German. Her father and mother were, however. She's in the same fix as Zimmerlein, and she isn't ashamed of it any more than Zimmie is.”
“I had—er—no idea that Mrs. Carstairs was—”
“What were your parents, Mr. Cribbs?” asked Mrs. Carstairs calmly.
“Nebraskans,” said Cribbs, stiffening. “My grandfather was a Welshman.”