"Who is he? Where did you get him from? Does he know German?"
He shot a string of questions at Monica, who answered them in her sweet, patient way.
He was apparently satisfied, for, when Monica presently got up to leave us, he threw me an armful of German papers and bade me read to him.
I had not sat with him for ten minutes before I realized what an impossible creature the man was. Nothing I could do was right. Now he didn't want to hear the war news, then it was the report of the Reichstag debate that bored him, now I didn't read loud enough, then my voice jarred on him. Finally, he snatched the paper out of my hand.
"I can't understand half you say," he cried in accents shrill with irritability; "you mouth and mumble like an Englishman. You say you are an American?"
"Yes, sir," I answered meekly, "but I resided for many years in England."
"Well, it's a good thing you're not there now. Those English are just plumb crazy. They'll never whip Germany, not if they try for a century. Why, look what this country has done in this war? Nothing can stand against her! It's organization, that's what it is! The Germans lead the world. Take their doctors! I have been to every specialist in America about my back and paid them thousands of dollars. And what good did they do me? Not a thing. I come to Germany, they charge me a quarter of the fees, and I feel a different man already. Before tackling the Germans, the English ..."
Thus he ran on. I knew the type well, the American who is hypnotized by German efficiency and thoroughness so completely that he does not see the reverse side of the medal.
He exhausted himself on the topic at last and bade me read to him again.
"Read about the affair at the Hotel Esplanade last night," he commanded.