“And much worse than that,” said Anna-Rose, staring wide-eyed at her own past experiences, “posterity’s all tangled up with you.  It’s really simply awful sometimes for posterity.  Look at us.”

“If there hadn’t been a war we’d have been all right,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “But directly there’s a war, whoever it is you’ve married, if it isn’t one of your own countrymen, rises up against you, just as if he were too many meringues you’d had for dinner.”

“Living or dead,” said Anna-Rose, nodding, “he rises up against you.”

“Till the war we never thought at all about it,” said Anna-Felicitas.

“Either one way or the other,” said Anna-Rose.

“We never used to bother about what we were,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “We were just human beings, and so was everybody else just human beings.”

“We didn’t mind a bit about being Germans, or about other people not being Germans.”

“But you mustn’t think we mind now either,” said Anna-Felicitas, “because, you see, we’re not.”

Mr. Twist looked at them in turn.  His ears were a little prominent and pointed, and they gave him rather the air, when he put his head on one side and looked at them, of an attentive fox-terrier.  “I don’t think I quite follow,” he said again.

“It is very difficult,” agreed Anna-Rose.

“It’s because you’ve got into your head that we’re German because of our father,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “But what’s a father, when all’s said and done?”

“Well,” said Mr. Twist, “one has to have him.”

“But having got him he isn’t anything like as important as a mother,” said Anna-Rose.

“One hardly sees one’s father,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “He’s always busy.  He’s always thinking of something else.”

“Except when he looks at one and tells one to sit up straight,” said Anna-Rose pointedly to Anna-Felicitas, whose habit of drooping still persisted in spite of her father’s admonishments.

“Of course he’s very kind and benevolent when he happens to remember that one is there,” said Anna-Felicitas, sitting up beautifully for a moment, “but that’s about everything.”

“And of course,” said Anna-Rose, “one’s father’s intentions are perfectly sound and good, but his attention seems to wander.  Whereas one’s mother—­”

“Yes,” said Anna-Felicitas, “one’s mother—­”

They broke off and looked straight in front of them.  It didn’t bear speaking of.  It didn’t bear thinking of.

Suddenly Anna-Felicitas, weak from excessive sea-sickness, began to cry.  The tears just slopped over as though no resistance of any sort were possible.

Anna-Rose stared at her a moment horror-struck.  “Look here, Anna-F.,” she exclaimed, wrath in her voice, “I won’t have you be sentimental—­I won’t have you be sentimental....”

And then she too began to cry.

Well, once having hopelessly disgraced and exposed themselves, there was nothing for it but to take Mr. Twist into their uttermost confidence.  It was dreadful.  It was awful.  Before that strange man.  A person they hardly knew.  Other strangers passing.  Exposing their feelings.  Showing their innermost miserable places.