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 cruelty, Miss Eileen and I. We're rather puffed up with ourselves, ain't we, my dear?"

He grinned at Eileen through his big spectacles, and I could see that between this little American and that Irish girl there was an understanding comradeship.

So he told me when she left the room a minute to get another tea-cup, or wash one up.

"That girl!" he said. "Say, laddie, you couldn't find a better head in all Europe, including Hoover himself. She's a Napoleon Bonaparte without his blood-lust. She's Horatio Nelson and Lord Northcliffe and Nurse Cavell all rolled into one, to produce the organising genius of Eileen O'Connor. Only, you would have to add a few saints like Catherine of Sienna and Joan of Arc to allow for her spirituality. She organises feeding-centres like you would write a column article. She gets the confidence of Austrian women so that they would kiss her feet if she'd allow it. She has a head for figures that fairly puts me to shame, and as for her courage—well, I don't mind telling you that I've sworn to pack her back to England if she doesn't keep clear of typhus dens and other fever-stricken places. We can't afford to lose her by some dirty bug-bite."

Eileen came into the room again with another tea-cup and saucer. I counted those on the table and saw three already.

"Who is the other cup for?" I asked. "If you are expecting visitors I'll go, because I'm badly in need of a wash."

"Don't worry," said Eileen. "We haven't time to wash in Vienna, and anyhow there's no soap, for love or money. This is for Wickham, who is no visitor but one of the staff."

"Wickham?" I said. "Is Brand here?"

"Rather!" said Daddy Small. "He has been here a