But over it all was that surface cheerfulness, that best-foot-forward attitude of London.  And Sara Lee saw only that, and lost faith.  She had come far to help.  But here was food in plenty and bands playing and smiling men in uniform drinking tea and playing for a little.  That, too, Sara Lee was to understand later; but just then she did not.  At home there was more surface depression.  The atrocities, the plight of the Belgians, the honor list in the Illustrated London News—­that was the war to Sara Lee.  And here!

But later on, down in a crowded dark little room, things were different.  She was one of a long line, mostly women.  They were unhappy and desolate enough, God knows.  They sat or stood with a sort of weary resignation.  Now and then a short heavy man with an upcurled mustache came out and took in one or two.  The door closed.  And overhead the band played monotonously.

It was after seven when Sara Lee’s turn came.  The heavy-set man spoke to her in French, but he failed to use a single one of the words she had memorized.

“Don’t you speak any English?” she asked helplessly.

“I do; but not much,” he replied.  Though his French had been rapid he spoke English slowly.  “How can we serve you, mademoiselle?”

“I don’t want any assistance.  I—­I want to help, if I can.”

“Here?”

“In France.  Or Belgium.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“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.