“I often feel angry inside,” Gretel admitted, honestly, “but I try not to let people see it. After all, every one has a right to express an opinion, and it’s only natural Ada should hate the Germans.”
Gretel had only been at the Chesters’ four days, but she already felt thoroughly at home with the whole family. She had taken a great fancy to kind, cheerful Mrs. Chester, and the thought of the short drive with her was very pleasant. So it was with a very light heart that she ran down-stairs half an hour later to join her hostess at the front door.
The drive was as pleasant as she had anticipated, but it was a very hot afternoon, and as they neared the town the little sea breeze, which had prevented people on the Point from realizing quite how hot it was, entirely died out.
“This heat is really unbearable,” Mrs. Chester declared, as the car turned into the crowded main street. “We will hurry with our shopping, and perhaps have time for a little turn before the train comes. Motoring is about the pleasantest thing one can do on a day like this. You may stop the car right here in the shade, Thomas, and Miss Gretel and I will get out. Now, dear, suppose you do your errand while I attend to a little Saturday marketing, and then we can both come back here. I think you may find your wool at one of those shops on the other side of the street.”
New London streets had seldom been more crowded than on that Saturday afternoon. Besides the usual number of Saturday shoppers, there were many strangers, who had motored into town, and a goodly sprinkling of sailors from the naval station. The streets were lined with motors, and people pushed and jostled each other on the narrow sidewalks. It was a good-natured crowd, however, and Gretel found it rather entertaining. She was obliged to try several shops before finding what she wanted, and was just coming out of a big dry-goods store, with her parcel, when she almost collided with a man who appeared to be lounging idly against the open doorway. He moved aside, murmuring a word of apology, and at the same moment something vaguely familiar in his face caused Gretel to look at him more attentively. In another second she had uttered a cry of joyful recognition, and was holding out both hands to the stranger.
“Fritz, Fritz Lippheim, is it really you?”
In the excitement of that recognition, Gretel had forgotten the war, Germany, everything in the world except the one joyful fact that here was her father’s dear old friend, the man who had been so kind to her when she was a little girl. At the sound of her voice, however, the stranger had drawn back suddenly, and was now regarding her with an expression of mingled surprise and embarrassment.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffly; “I think you are under a mistake. My name—good heavens! I believe it’s little Gretel Schiller!”
“Of course it is!” laughed Gretel. “Oh, Fritz, you don’t know how glad I am to see you. I’ve been wanting to hear something about you and dear Mrs. Lippheim for years and years. My sister-in-law and I tried to find you once, but you had moved, and no one could give us your address. Do tell me about everything. How is your mother?”
A shade of sadness crossed the man’s troubled face.