And Sara Lee saw only that, and lost faith. She
had come far to help. But here was food in plenty and bands playing
and smiling men in uniform drinking tea and playing for a little. That,
too, Sara Lee was to understand later; but just then she did not. At
home there was more surface depression. The atrocities, the plight of
the Belgians, the honor list in the _Illustrated London News_--that was
the war to Sara Lee. And here!
But later on, down in a crowded dark little room, things were different.
She was one of a long line, mostly women. They were unhappy and desolate
enough, God knows. They sat or stood with a sort of weary resignation.
Now and then a short heavy man with an upcurled mustache came out and
took in one or two. The door closed. And overhead the band played
monotonously.
It was after seven when Sara Lee's turn came. The heavy-set man spoke
to her in French, but he failed to use a single one of the words she
had memorized.
"Don't you speak any English?" she asked helplessly.
"I do; but not much," he replied. Though his French had been rapid he
spoke English slowly. "How can we serve you, mademoiselle?"
"I don't want any assistance.
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