Wickham spoke with dismay in his voice. I think he had counted on Eileen as his stand-by when Elsa would need a friend in England. “Hush now!” said “Daddy” Small. “It’s my secret, you wicked lady with black eyes and a mystical manner.” “Doctor,” said Eileen, “your own President rebukes you. ‘Open covenants openly arrived at--weren’t those his words for the new diplomacy?” “Would to God he had kept to them,” said the little doctor, bitterly, launching into a denunciation of the Peace Conference until I cut him short with a question. “What’s this secret, Doctor?” He pulled out his pocket-book with an air of mystery. “We’re getting on with the International League of Goodwill,” he said. “It’s making more progress than the League of Nations. There are names here that are worth their weight in gold. There are golden promises which by the grace of God----” “Daddy” Small spoke solemnly--“will be fulfilled by golden deeds. Anyhow, we’re going to get a move on--away from hatred towards charity, not for the making of wounds but for the healing, not punishing the innocent for the sins of the guilty, but saving the innocent--the Holy Innocents--for the glory of life. Miss Eileen and others are going to be the instruments of the machinery of mercy, rather, I should say, the spirit of humanity.” “With you as our gallant leader,” said Eileen, patting his hand. “It sounds good,” said Brand. “Let’s hear some more.” Dr. Small told us more in glowing language, and in Biblical utterance mixed with American slang like Billy Sunday’s Bible. He was profoundly moved. He was filled with hope and gladness, and with a humble pride because his efforts had borne fruit. The scheme was simple. From his friends in the United States he had promises, as good as gold, of many millions of American dollars. From English friends he had also considerable sums. With this treasure he was going to Central Europe to organise relief on a big scale for the children who were starving to death. Eileen O’Connor was to be his private secretary and assistant-organiser. She would have heaps of work to do, and she had graduated in the prisons and slums of Lille. They were starting in a week’s time for Warsaw, Prague, Buda-Pesth and Vienna. “Then,” said Brand, “Elsa will lose a friend.” “Bring her, too,” said Eileen. “There’s work for all.” Brand was startled by this, and a sudden light leapt into his eyes. “By Jove!... But I’m afraid not. That’s impossible.” So it was only a week we had with Eileen, but in that time we had some good meetings and merry adventures. Brand and I rowed her on the lake in Kensington Gardens, and she told us Irish fairy-tales as she sat in the stem with her hat in her lap, and the wind playing in her brown hair. We took her to the Russian Ballet and she wept a little at the beauty of it. “After four years of war,” she said, “beauty is like water to a parched soul. It’s so exquisite it hurts.” She took us one day into the Carmelite Church at