Gretel gave a start, and the color rushed up into her face.
“I—I wasn’t thinking about your country,” she stammered; “I was only sorry because you are so unhappy.”
“But it is of my poor country that I am thinking,” sighed the German woman. “My dear ones have suffered so cruelly. My two uncles were killed the first year, and the cousin to whom I was affianced is a prisoner in Russia.”
“But the other countries have suffered just as much,” said Gretel, “and, after all, it was Germany that started the war.”
“You say that because you will only listen to one side,” she cried, and her voice shook with sudden anger. “You, who are a German yourself, should have a broad mind.”
Gretel’s cheeks grew hotter, and even her heart began to beat rather fast.
“I am not narrow-minded,” she said, indignantly, “and—and, I think you forget, Fräulein, that I am an American. My mother was an American, and I was born in New York.”
Fräulein began to cry again.
“You need not fly at me,” she sobbed. “Your father was a German.”