“Oh, I see. Then even you, Mademoiselle, may not call him Percival?”
“No, I do not call him Percival.”
“You see, she's known me such a very short time,” explained the subject of these remarks.
For a few moments Madame Obosky watched the bandaging process in silence. When she spoke again it was to say:
“You are so skilful, so gentle, Mademoiselle. I am taking a lesson in gentleness from you.”
“It is quite simple, Madame. I am very awkward. I have had no experience. But if we ever live to see home again, I shall prepare myself at once for work in France. We are needed over there. We will be needed more than ever, now that America has gone in. Our own soldiers are over there, God bless them.”
Madame Obosky gave her a pitying look.
“You may thank your God that you do not live in a land of soldiers, Mademoiselle. If you did, you would not be so eager to nurse them back to life. Do I shock you? Voila! When you train a boy to be a soldier, as the boys are trained in my country and in Germany, you make an animal of him,—and not a very nice animal at that. You nurse him back to life and strength and in return for your kindness he outrages you, and goes his way rejoicing. No, I do not like the soldiers.”
Miss Clinton did not look up. Percival stared at the Russian for a moment and then observed:
“I don't think you can say that of the French or the English, Madame.”