gularly long
feet which clearly could suit no one but Santa Claus.

As, according to my stepmother, all the ladies of the guild were
"top-wave swells," I'd expected to find the fair brigade of volunteers
exquisitely dressed in the latest Paris fashions of "before the war."
But no! They had invented a still later fashion of their own. It was to
be frumpish. The smart thing for the women of Great Britain was to have
their hair done plainly, with an angelic effect of putting patriotism
before vanity, and having no time to spend on self. No money, either, to
judge from their frocks! Where they had raked up their old clothes, I
can't imagine. There were skirts and blouses in that transformed
drawing-room in which, a few weeks ago, their wearers would not have
gone out to burn down a church or to be dragged to prison. Still, I must
say that most of the wearers contrived to look very distinguished, even
those at the sewing-machines, who had got tousled as children do over
unaccustomed schoolroom tasks. No one had on any jewellery except Kitty,
Mrs. Dalziel, and Milly, and one or two others who were also evidently
Americans not required to sacrifice everything for Great Britain's sake.
They, with their pretty dresses, their rings and earrings and strings of
large, glistening pearls, were like gay flowers in a kitchen garden.

Kitty, fat and fashionable, and Di, slim and elaborately frumpish, came
to meet me with pajama legs in their hands. They didn't trouble to take
off their thimbles, and I thought they seemed far from being ashamed of
the needle pricks on their fingers.

A few of the girls I knew already, and some of the older women. All had
heard from Di or from the Dalziels that I had been doing a little
amateur work as a nurse in Belgium, but no one--not even Di
herself--expressed curiosity as to details. They had so much to think of
that interested them more; and I was thankful for the self-absorption of
Kitty and Di which saved me from awkward questions as to how I had
contrived to get out of Liege. It was simply taken for granted by my
family that, according to my own written account, I had made the journey
home with thoroughly reputable refugees. I felt sure that Tony had not
given his mother and sister any indiscreet information about "Monsieur
Mars." Neither did he appear to have told them that our engagement was
definitely broken off. Their unsuspecting friendliness made me feel
guilty, and I decided that I ought