There were footsteps outside, and Henri drew the door a little closer.  But he was dismayed to find it Marie.  She crept in, a white and broken thing, and looked about her.

“Maurice!” she called.

She sat down for a moment, and then, seeing the disorder about her, set to work to clear the table.  It was then that Henri lowered his pistol and opened the door.

“Don’t shriek, Marie,” he said.

She turned and saw him, and clutched at the table.

“Monsieur!”

“Marie,” he said quietly, “go up these stairs and remain quiet.  Do not walk round.  And do not come down, no matter what you hear!”

She obeyed him, stumbling somewhat.  For she had seen his revolver, and it frightened her.  But as she passed him she clutched at his sleeve.

“He is good—­Maurice,” she said, gasping.  “Of the father I know nothing, but Maurice—­”

“Go up and be silent!” was all he said.

Now, by all that goes to make a story, Sara Lee should have met Mabel at the Hotel des Arcades in Dunkirk, and should have been able to make that efficient young woman burn with jealousy—­Mabel, who from the safety of her hospital in Boulogne considered Dunkirk the Front.

Indeed Sara Lee, to whom the world was beginning to seem very small, had had some such faint hope.  But Mabel was not there, and it was not until long after that they met at all, and then only when the lights had gone down and Sara Lee was again knitting by the fire.

There were a few nurses there, in their white veils with the red cross over the forehead, and one or two Englishwomen in hats that sat a trifle too high on the tops of their heads and with long lists before them which they checked as they ate.  Aviators in leather coats; a few Spahis in cloak and turban, with full-gathered bloomers and high boots; some American ambulance drivers, rather noisy and very young; and many officers, in every uniform of the Allied armies—­sat at food together and for a time forgot their anxieties under the influence of lights, food and warmth, and red and white wine mixed with water.

When he chose, Jean could be a delightful companion; not with Henri’s lift of spirits, but quietly interesting.  And that evening he was a new Jean to Sara Lee, a man of the world, talking of world affairs.  He found her apt and intelligent, and for Sara Lee much that had been clouded cleared up forever that night.  Until then she had known only the humanities of the war, or its inhumanities.  There, over that little table, she learned something of its politics and its inevitability.  She had been working in the dark, with her heart only.  Now she began to grasp the real significance of it all, of Belgium’s anxiety for many years, of Germany’s cold and cruel preparation, and empty protests of friendship.  She learned of the flight of the government from Brussels, the most important state papers being taken away in a hand cart, on top of which, at the last moment, some flustered official had placed a tall silk hat!  She learned of the failure of great fortifications before the invaders’ heavy guns.  And he had drawn for her such a picture of Albert of Belgium as she was never to forget.