“Never mind the drinks, Peter,” said a tall, greyish man as the steward placed the glasses on the table. “We've lost what little thirst we had. Where are the Reynolds Works from here?” Peter looked surprised. “South, sir,--beyond the hills. About five miles, I should say, Mr. Carstairs.” “And which way is south?” inquired one of the women. “I am always turned around when I am in the country.” She was a singularly pallid, clear-featured woman of perhaps forty-five. One might surmise that at twenty she had been lovely, even exquisite. “This way, Mrs. Carstairs,” said the steward, starting toward the windows at the lower end of the lounge. The man who had been addressed as Zimmie was already at one of the broad windows, peering out into the black, windy night. “Can't see a thing,” he said, as the others crowded about him. “The shops are off there in a direct line with the home green, I should say.” “I happen to know that the Allies have a fifteen million dollar contract with the Reynolds people,” said Carstairs, looking hard into the blackness. “If they'd string up a few of these infernal--There! See the glow coming up over the hill? She's afire! And with this wind,--'gad, she'll go like waste paper! My God, I wish the whole German Army was sitting on top of those buildings right now.” It was little Mr. Cribbs who spoke. He was shaking like a leaf. “I'd rather see a million or two of these so-called German-Americans sitting there, Cribbs,” said Carstairs, between his teeth. “There'd be some satisfaction in that.” His wife nudged him sharply. He turned and caught the warning look in her eye and the slight movement of her head in the direction of the man called Zimmie. “Oh, that's all right,” cried Carstairs carelessly. “You needn't punch me, dear. Zimmie 's as good an American as any of us. Don't think for a moment, Zimmie, old chap, that I include you in the gang I'd like to see sitting on that pile of shells over there.” The man at the window turned, and smiled affably. “Thanks, old man. Being, as you say, as good an American as any of you, I may be permitted to return the compliment. I shouldn't like to see Mrs. Carstairs sitting on that pile of shells.” Carstairs flushed. An angry light leaped to his eyes, but it was banished almost instantly. Mrs. Carstairs herself replied. “I can't imagine anything more distasteful,” she drawled. “But Mrs. Carstairs isn't a German,” put in little Mr. Cribbs, somewhat tartly for him. “You're always saying the wrong thing, Cribbs,--or the right thing at the wrong time,” said Carstairs. “Mrs. Carstairs is not German. Her father and mother were, however. She's in the same fix as Zimmerlein, and she isn't ashamed of it any more than Zimmie is.” “I had--er--no idea that Mrs. Carstairs was--” “What were your parents, Mr. Cribbs?” asked Mrs. Carstairs calmly. “Nebraskans,” said Cribbs, stiffening. “My grandfather was a Welshman.”