"My dear young ladies," I said at last, "I think you are splendid and an example to the world; but what you ask is impossible. Have you thought for a moment what it would be like to find yourselves in barracks with the ordinary British soldier? He is a brave man and, when you meet him alone, he is nearly always a nice man; but collectively he might not do as company for you."
"But look at this," said Red Hair, showing me a newspaper-cutting about a group of Russian girls known as "The Twelve Friends," who have been through the campaign and were treated with the utmost respect by the soldiers.
"And there's a woman buried at Brighton," said Black Hair, "who fought as a man for years and lived to be a hundred."
"And think of Joan of Arc," said Red Hair.
"And Boadicea," said Black Hair.
"Well," I said, "leaving Joan of Arc and Boadicea aside, possibly those Russians and that Brighton woman looked like men, which it is certain you don't. But any way we must be serious. What would your people say?"
"We left word," said Red Hair, "that we were going off to do something for our country. They won't worry. Oh, please be kind and help us!"
Here all four of their beautiful eyes grow moist.
I could have hugged both of them, but I kept an iron hand on myself.
"You nice absurd creatures," I said, "do be reasonable. To begin with, passing the doctor is an absolute necessity. That shuts you out. But even if you got through how do you think you would be helping your country? All the men would be falling in love with you; and that's bad enough as it is after working hours; it would be the ruin of discipline. And you could not bear the fatigue. No, go back and learn to be nurses and let your lovely hair grow again."