'Of course. We wait here till our people come for us. All the world knows that,' said the eldest girl.
'Yes.' The boy in her lap had waked again. 'Little children, too--as little as Henri, and he doesn't wear trousers yet. As little as all that.'
'I don't understand,' said Frau Ebermann, shivering. In spite of the heat of the room and the damp breath of the steam-inhaler, the aspirin was not doing its duty.
The girl raised her blue eyes and looked at the woman for an instant.
'You see,' she said, emphasising her statements with her ringers, 'they told us to wait here till our people came for us. So we came. We wait till our people come for us.'
'That is silly again,' said Frau Ebermann. 'It is no good for you to wait here. Do you know what this place is? You have been to school? It is Berlin, the capital of Germany.'
'Yes, yes,' they all cried; 'Berlin, capital of Germany. We know that. That is why we came.'
'So, you see, it is no good,' she said triumphantly, 'because your people can never come for you here.'
'They told us to come here and wait till our people came for us.' They delivered this as if it were a lesson in school. Then they sat still, their hands orderly folded on their laps, smiling as sweetly as ever.
'Go away! Go away!' Frau Ebermann shrieked.