Mr. Travers was on the hearth rug.  Mrs. Travers was in a chair, a portly woman with a not unkindly face, but the brusque manner many Englishwomen acquire after forty.  She held Sara Lee’s hand and gave her a complete if smiling inspection.

“And it is you who are moving heaven and earth to get to the Front!  You—­child!”

Sara Lee’s heart fell, but she smiled also.

“But I am older than I look,” she said.  “And I am very strong.”

Mrs. Travers looked helplessly at her husband, while she rang the bell for tea.  That was another thing Sara Lee had read about but never seen—­that ringing for tea.  At home no one served afternoon tea; but at a party, when refreshments were coming, the hostess slipped out to the kitchen and gave a whispered order or two.

“I shall be frank with you,” said Mrs. Travers.  “I think it quite impossible.  It is not getting you over.  That might be done.  And of course there are women over there—­young ones too.  But the army objects very seriously to their being in danger.  And of course one never knows—­” Her voice trailed off vaguely.  She implied, however, that what one never knows was best unknown.

“I have a niece over there,” she said as the tea tray came in.  “Her mother was fool enough to let her go.  Now they can’t get her back.”

“Oh, dear!” said Sara Lee.  “Can’t they find her?”

“She won’t come.  Little idiot!  She’s in Paris, however.  I daresay she is safe enough.”

Mrs. Travers made the tea thoughtfully.  So far Mr. Travers had hardly spoken, but he cheered in true British fashion at the sight of the tea.  Sara Lee, exceedingly curious as to the purpose of a very small stand somewhat resembling a piano stool, which the maid had placed at her knee, learned that it was to hold her muffin plate.

“And now,” said Mr. Travers, “suppose we come to the point.  There doesn’t seem to be a chance to get you over, my child.  Same answer everywhere.  Place is full of untrained women.  Spies have been using Red Cross passes.  Result is that all the lines are drawn as tight as possible.”

Sara Lee stared at him with wide eyes.

“But I can’t go back,” she said.  “I—­well, I just can’t.  They’re raising the money for me, and all sorts of people are giving things.  A—­a friend of mine is baking cakes and sending on the money.  She has three children, and—­”

She gulped.

“I thought everybody wanted to get help to the Belgians,” she said.

A slightly grim smile showed itself on Mrs. Travers’ face.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand.  It is you we want to help.  Neither Mr. Travers nor I feel that a girl so young as you, and alone, has any place near the firing line.  And that, I fancy, is where you wish to go.  As to helping the Belgians, we have four in the house now.  They do not belong to the same social circles, so they prefer tea in their own rooms.  You are quite right about their needing help too.  They cannot even make up their own beds.”