Mr. Watkins carefully placed a pitcher of hot water on the stand. "Are you married, Watkins?" The butler considered deferentially. "No, sir," he said, after mature reflection. "You ought to be," said the American. The butler carefully drew the window-curtains together. "Are you, sir?" "No," said Craighouse with great energy; "but when I do marry it will be with some girl born in the United States of America." Mr. Watkins drifted towards the door. "Your bath will be ready at six, and breakfast at six-thirty," he said. What Mr. Watkins had taken for persiflage was in reality another American declaration of independence. IX It was late in March, 1918, that two American officers sat by the side of a road in France and watched a stream of refugees go by in an endless pageant of misery. Old men crawled along on bleeding, ill-shod feet; women were carrying grotesque bundles and leading absurd ponies that drew household goods on rickety carts; and there were girls, half-women, who bore infants in their arms, and who looked neither to right nor left, but followed on in mute fatigue and tearless agony. Craighouse, who wore the badges of a captain, swore softly to himself. His companion bit his lip. "I hear the Germans are smashing through everywhere," said the latter. "God! I wonder if we have been too late." Several ambulances passed in rapid succession, their bandaged and bleeding occupants lying crowded together. A girl, less than eighteen years of age, dropped to the ground opposite to them. In a bound Craighouse was by her side and had lifted her to her feet. For a moment his strong hands gripped her arms tenaciously as though he would transmit some of his strength to her. Without a word, without a look at him, she freed herself and staggered on, her face livid except where a slight flush showed beneath the black hollows of her eyes. Craighouse went back to the other officer, but his face was gray and drawn, while his clenched fists drove the nails into his palms. His companion cursed blasphemously. The roar of the guns grew louder, like a storm that is driven on the wings of a hurricane. They heard the snorting of engines behind them, and looking quickly, they saw a long line of London omnibuses crowded with English soldiers. They were shouting encouragement to the refugees, and waved gaily as they passed the Americans. "Those chaps will be in action in an hour," said Craighouse, and swallowed noticeably. "Simpson," he went on, "do you realize that it's little England who has kept this thing from us for three and a half years? It's England who stood by her word; and now that she's drained of her men and boys, she doesn't reproach Russia for letting her down; she hasn't uttered a word of impatience for our slow arrival--asking nothing for herself, blaming no one. It's little England who is gathering the spear-points into her breast that your children and mine may live like human beings!"