But I made no answer.
I affected not to hear.
I went with Henri on through the little hall at the far end of the café.
Next moment I found myself in a big, clean kitchen. And a tall stout woman, her black eyes swimming in tears, was leaning towards me, her arms open.
"Oh, poor Madame!" she said.
She clasped me to her breast.
Between her tears, in her choking voice she whispered, "I told Henri to bring you here. You are safe with me. We are from Luxemburg. We fled from home at the beginning of the war rather than see our state swarming with Prussians, as it is now. We Luxemburgers hate Germans with a hate that passes all other hate on earth. And I have three children, who are all in England now. I sent them there a week ago. I sold my jewels, my all to let them go. I know my children are safe in England. And you, Madame, you are safe with me!"
"Don't call me Madame, call me Louisa."
"And call me Ada," she said.
"So, au revoir!" said Henri. "I shall come round later with your things."