“One day does not matter, surely, when our national interests are at stake!”
“Of course not, silly boy,” laughed the woman. She saw that she was not treating him with tact, and knew his exact value. “Don’t let us discuss it any further. See what you can do to-morrow.”
“I’ll compel Heinrich to get at what we want,” cried Carl Berenstein—whose father had, since the war, changed his name, with the consent of the Home Office, of course, to Burton. “I’m as savage as you are that he should prefer to motor a girl to Brighton. But what can I do?”
“Nothing, my dear boy. The girl will always win. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you will understand.”
“Then you don’t blame me—do you?” asked the young man, eagerly.
“Why, of course, not at all, my dear Carl. Heinrich’s a fool to be attracted by any petticoat. There are always so many better.”
“As long as you don’t blame me, Molly, I don’t care. The guv’nor is as wild as I am about it.”
“Oh, never mind. Get hold of him when he comes back, and come here as soon as possible and tell me. Remember that Number Seventy is thirsting for information.”
“Yes, I will. Rely on me. We are good Germans, all of us. These silly swelled-headed fools of English are only playing into our hands. They have no idea of what they will have to face later on. Ach! I only wish I were back again in the dear Rhineland with my friends, who are now officers serving at the front. But this British bubble cannot last. It must soon be pricked. And its result must be disastrous.”
“We hope so. We can’t tell. But, there, don’t let us discuss it. We are out to win the war. This matter I leave to you, good Germans that you and Heinrich are, to make your report.”