“A nation works on its stomach. Underfeed your rank and file, and what sort of a fight are you going to put up against your rivals. I want to see England going ahead. I want to see her workers properly fed. I want to see the corn upon her unused acres, the cattle grazing on her wasted pastures. I object to the food being thrown into the sea—left to rot upon the ground while men are hungry—side-tracked in Chicago, while the children grow up stunted. I want the commissariat properly organized.”
He had been staring through her rather than at her, so it had seemed to Joan. Suddenly their eyes met, and he broke into a smile.
“I’m so awfully sorry,” he said. “I’ve been talking to you as if you were a public meeting. I’m afraid I’m more used to them than I am to women. Please forgive me.”
The whole man had changed. The eyes had a timid pleading in them.
Joan laughed. “I’ve been feeling as if I were the King of Bavaria,” she said.
“How did he feel?” he asked her, leaning forward.
“He had his own private theatre,” Joan explained, “where Wagner gave his operas. And the King was the sole audience.”
“I should have hated that,” he said, “if I had been Wagner.”
He looked at her, and a flush passed over his boyish face.
“All right,” he said, “if it had been a queen.”