Now men, in Sara Lee’s mind, had until now been divided into the ones at home, one’s own kind, the sort who married one’s friends or oneself, the kind who called their wives “mother” after the first baby came, and were easily understood, plain men, decent and God-fearing and self-respecting; and the men of that world outside America, who were foreigners.  One might like foreigners, but they were outsiders.

So there was no self-consciousness in Sara Lee’s bow and smile.  Later on Henri was to find that lack of self and sex consciousness one of the maddening mysteries about Sara Lee.  Perhaps he never quite understood it.  But always he respected it.

More conversation, in an increasing staccato.  Short contributions from the men crowded into corners.  Frenzied beating of the typewriting machines, and overhead and far away the band.  There was no air in the room.  Sara Lee was to find out a great deal later on about the contempt of the Belgians for air.  She loosened Aunt Harriet’s neckpiece.

So far Henri had not joined in the discussion.  But now he came forward and spoke.  Also, having finished, he interpreted to Sara Lee.

“They are most grateful,” he explained.  “It is a—­a practical idea, mademoiselle.  If you were in Belgium”—­he smiled rather mirthlessly—­ “if you were already in the very small part of Belgium remaining to us, we could place you very usefully.  But—­the British War Office is most careful, just now.  You understand—­there are reasons.”

Sara Lee flushed indignantly.

“They can watch me if they want to,” she said.  “What trouble can I make?  I’ve only just landed.  You—­you’d have to go a good ways to find any one who knows less than I do about the war.”

“There is no doubt of that,” he said, unconscious of offense.  “But the War Office—­” He held out his hands.

Sara Lee, who had already caught the British “a” and was rather overdoing it, had a wild impulse to make the same gesture.  It meant so much.

More conversation.  Evidently more difficulties—­but with Henri now holding the center of the stage and speaking rapidly.  The heavy-set man retired and read letters under an electric lamp.  The band upstairs was having dinner.  And Henri argued and wrangled.  He was quite passionate.  The man in the military cape listened and smiled.  And at last he nodded.

Henri turned to Sara Lee.

“You Americans are all brave,” he said.  “You like—­what is it you say?—­taking a chance, I think.  Would you care to take such a chance?”

“What sort of a chance?”

“May I visit you this evening at your hotel?”

Just for an instant Sara Lee hesitated.  There was Harvey at home.  He would not like her receiving a call from any man.  And Harvey did not like foreigners.  He always said they had no respect for women.  It struck her suddenly what Harvey would call Henri’s bowing and his kissing her hand, and his passionate gesticulations when he was excited.  He would call it all tomfool nonsense.