lled the
stowaway. No one has speak your name to me."

"My name is Percival," said he.

"It is a pretty name," said she, dubiously. "But surely you do not
approve of me to call you Percival so quick. What is the other name, the
name I am to--"

"That's the trouble with a name like mine. It sounds so beastly informal
when you leave off the Mister, and it sounds as if you'd been a servant
in the family for at least one generation if you stick it on. If you
could only call me Monsieur Percival, or Senor Percival, or even Herr
Percival, it wouldn't seem so bad, but Mister Percival,--well, it's
pretty soft, isn't it, Miss Clinton?"

"Please hold your hand still, Mr. Percival," ordered the girl. She
smiled up at the puzzled dancer. "His name is Mr. Percival, Madame
Obosky. That's the poor creature's last name."

"Oh, I see. Then even you, Mademoiselle, may not call him Percival?"

"No, I do not call him Percival."

"You see, she's known me such a very short time," explained the subject
of these remarks.

For a few moments Madame Obosky watched the bandaging process in
silence. When she spoke again it was to say:

"You are so skilful, so gentle, Mademoiselle. I am taking a lesson in
gentleness from you."

"It is quite simple, Madame. I am very awkward. I have had no
experience. But if we ever live to see home again, I shall prepare
myself at once for work in France. We are needed over there. We will be
needed more than ever, now that America has gone in. Our own soldiers
are over there, God bless them."

Madame Obosky gave her a pitying look.

"You may thank your God that you do not live in a land of soldiers,
Mademoiselle. If you did, you would not be so eager to nurse them back
to life. Do I shock you? Voila! When you train a boy to be a soldier, as
the boys are trained in my country and in Germany, you make an animal of
him,--and not a very nice animal at that. You nurse him back to life and
strength and in return for your kindness he outrages you, and goes his
way rejoicing. No, I do not like the soldiers."

Miss Clinton did not look up. Percival stared at the Russian for a
moment and then observed:

"I don't think you can say that of the French or the English, Madame."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Quite true. But the French and the English,
Mr. Percival, are decadent races," she said coolly, as if there were
nothing more to be said on the subject. "Please, Mademoiselle," she went
on, briskly, "will yo