“Say, my dear,” he said, “you’re making poor old Wickham blush like an Englishman asked to tell the story of his V.C. in public.” Brand laughed, too, in his harsh, deep voice. “Why, Eileen, you ought to have told me before I moved out of Lille.” “And where would maiden modesty have been?” asked Eileen, in her humourous way. “Where is it now?” asked the little doctor. “Besides,” said Brand, “I had that letter to Franz von Kreuzenach in my pocket. I don’t mind telling you I detested the fellow for his infernal impudence in making love to you.” “Sure now, it was a one-sided affair, entirely,” said Eileen, exaggerating her Irish accent, “but one has to be polite to a gentleman that saves one’s life on account of a romantic passion. Oh, Wickham, it’s very English you are!” Brand could find nothing to say for himself, and it was I who came to the rescue of his embarrassment by dragging a red herring across the thread of Eileen’s discourse. She had a wonderful way of saying things that on most girls’ lips would have seemed audacious, or improper, or high-falutin, but on hers were natural with a simplicity which shone through her. Her sense of humour played like a light about her words, yet beneath her wit was a tenderness and a knowledge of tragic things. I remember some of her sayings that night at dinner, and they seemed to me very good then, though when put down they lose the deep melody of her voice and the smile or sadness of her dark eyes. “England,” she said, “fought the war for Liberty and the rights of small nations, but said to Ireland, ‘Hush, keep quiet there, damn you, or you’ll make us look ridiculous.’” “Irish soldiers,” she said, “helped England to win all her wars but mostly in Scottish regiments. When the poor boys wanted to carry an Irish flag, Kitchener said, ‘Go to Hell,’ and some of them went to Flanders ... and recruiting stopped with a snap.” “Now, how do you know these things?” asked Daddy Small. “Did Kitchener go to Lille to tell you?” “No,” said Eileen, “but I found some of the Dublin boys in the prison at Lille, and they told the truth before they died, and perhaps it was that which killed them. That, and starvation, and German brutality.” “I believe you’re a Sinn Feiner,” said Dr. Small. “Why don’t you go to Ireland and show your true colours, ma’am?” “I’m Sinn Fein all right,” said Eileen, “but I hated the look of a white wall in Lille, and there are so many white walls in the little green isle. So I’m stopping in Kensington and trying to hate the English, but can’t because I love them.” She turned to Wickham and said: “Will you take me for a row in Kensington Gardens the very next day the sun shines?” “Rather!” said Wickham, “on one condition!” “And that?” “That you’ll be kind to my little Elsa when she comes.” “I’ll be a mother to her,” said Eileen, “but she must come quick or I’ll be gone.” “Gone?”