Bertram’s rage had subsided, and he felt guilty of a social misdemeanour in having raised such an argument in Dorothy’s drawing-room.
“I behaved like the Dragon,” he said. “Breathing out fire. A disgraceful incident!”
“I love sincerity,” said Fräulein von Wegener. “And I hate Generals.”
“How’s that?” asked Bertram. “They seem to be highly respected in Germany, in spite of their—well, let’s call it failure to achieve absolute victory.”
The girl laughed, with a pleasant, musical, mirthful sound.
“Their self-conceit is kolossal! But they’ve been found out. The German people have no more use for them.”
“You think that?” asked Bertram, doubtfully.
“The people,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Not the little crowd in drawing-rooms like this. . . . I go among the working folk, in children’s clinics—for charity, you know. They hate war and all its stupidity. Never again, they say.”
“Not even against France?”
She hesitated, and seemed embarrassed for a moment.