"We have many offers of help. What we need, mademoiselle, is not workers. We have, at our base hospital, already many English nurses." "I am not a nurse." "I am sorry. The whole world is sorry for Belgium, and many would work. What we need"--he shrugged his shoulders again--"is food, clothing, supplies for our brave little soldiers." Sara Lee looked extremely small and young. The Belgian sat down on a chair and surveyed her carefully. "You English are doing a--a fine work for us," he observed. "We are grateful. But of course the"--he hesitated--"the pulling up of an entire people--it is colossal." "But I am not English," said Sara Lee. "And I have a little money. I want to make soup for your wounded men at a railway station or--any place. I can make good soup. And I shall have money each month to buy what I need." Only then was Sara Lee admitted to the crowded little room. Long afterward, when the lights behind the back drop had gone down and Sara Lee was back again in her familiar setting, one of the clearest pictures she retained of that amazing interlude was of that crowded little room in the Savoy, its single littered desk, its two typewriters creating an incredible din, a large gentleman in a dark-blue military cape seeming to fill the room. And in corners and off stage, so to speak, perhaps a half dozen men, watching her curiously. The conversation was in French, and Sara Lee's acquaintance of the passage acted as interpreter. It was only when Sara Lee found that a considerable discussion was going on in which she had no part that she looked round and saw her friend of two nights before and of the little donkey. He was watching her intently, and when he caught her eye he bowed. Now men, in Sara Lee's mind, had until now been divided into the ones at home, one's own kind, the sort who married one's friends or oneself, the kind who called their wives "mother" after the first baby came, and were easily understood, plain men, decent and God-fearing and self-respecting; and the men of that world outside America, who were foreigners. One might like foreigners, but they were outsiders. So there was no self-consciousness in Sara Lee's bow and smile. Later on Henri was to find that lack of self and sex consciousness one of the maddening mysteries about Sara Lee. Perhaps he never quite understood it. But always he respected it. More conversation, in an increasing staccato. Short contributions from the men crowded into corners. Frenzied beating of the typewriting machines, and overhead and far away the band. There was no air in the room. Sara Lee was to find out a great deal later on about the contempt of the Belgians for air. She loosened Aunt Harriet's neckpiece. So far Henri had not joined in the discussion. But now he came forward and spoke. Also, having finished, he interpreted to Sara Lee.