Yet for a day or two nothing much was changed. Mr. Travers sent Sara

Lee a note that he was taking up her problem with the Foreign Office;

and he did indeed make an attempt. He also requested his wife to ask

Sara Lee to tea.

Sara Lee was extremely nervous on the day she went. She wore a black

jacket suit with a white collar, and she carried Aunt Harriet's mink

furs, Aunt Harriet mourning thoroughly and completely in black astrachan.

She had the faculty of the young American girl of looking smart without

much expense, and she appeared absurdly young.

She followed the neat maid up a wide staircase to a door with a screen

just inside, and heard her name announced for the first time in her life.

Sara Lee took a long breath and went inside, to a most discouraging half

hour.

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.




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