“Do you, indeed?” Desmond said, staring at this amazing female. “But why did you leave Clapham?”
“My father came back to fight. He knew all about the war; he left England two months before it began. I did not wish to leave. I desired to remain, earning good wages. But my father would not permit me.”
“And where is he now?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I do not know. Fighting: killed, perhaps. But my uncle graciously offered me a home, and here am I. I do the work of three men, and I am—how did we say it in Clapham?—bored stiff for England. I wish this silly old war would end, so that I could return.”
“We’re trying to return without waiting for it to end,” said Jim solemnly. “Only I’d like to know how you knew what we were.”
“But what else could you be? It is so funny how you put on these clothes, like the ostrich, and think no one will guess who you are. If you wore his suit of feathers you would still look like British officers and nothing else.”
“You’re encouraging,” said Desmond grimly. “I hope all your nation won’t be as discerning.”
“Ach—they!” said the girl. “They see no farther than their noses. I, too, was like that before I went to Clapham.”
“It’s a pleasant spot,” said Desmond. “I don’t wonder you improved there. But all the same, you are German, aren’t you? I don’t quite see why you want to befriend us.” He took a satisfying mouthful of sausage. “But I’m glad you do.”