"Well, Youngster," laughed the Journalist, "it will have to be 'after the war,' as you will probably have to go to Berlin to find her."
"That's all right!" retorted the Youngster. "I am going—with the Allied armies."
We all jumped up.
"No!" cried the Divorcée. "No!!"
"But I am. Where's the good of keeping it secret? I enlisted the day I went to Paris the first time—so did the Doctor, so did the Critic, and so did he, the innocent looking old blackguard," and he seized the Journalist by both shoulders and shook him well. "He thought we wouldn't find it out."
"Oh, well," said the Journalist, "when one has seen three wars, one may as well see one more.—This will surely be my last."
"Anyway," cried the Youngster, "we'll see it all round—the Doctor in the Field Ambulance, me in the air, the Critic is going to lug litters, and as for the Journalist—well, I'll bet it's secret service for him! Oh, I know you are not going to tell, but I saw you coming out of the English Embassy, and I'll bet my machine you've a ticket for London, and a letter to the Chief in your pocket."
"Bet away," said the Critic.
"What'd I tell you—what'd I tell you? He speaks every God-blessed language going, and if it wasn't that, he'd tell fast enough."
"Never mind," said the Trained Nurse, "so that he goes somewhere—with the rest of us."