"An American--a simon-pure citizen of the United States--I thought so. Welcome to the little old Rock!" He took both the girl's hands impulsively and pumped them. Mrs. Sherman, Kitty and Willy Kimball crowded around, and the clatter of voices was instantaneous: "By auto from Paris; goodness me!" "Not a thing to eat for three days but rye bread!" "From Strassburg to Luneville in a farmer's wagon!" Each in a whirlwind of ejaculation tried to outdo the other's story of hardship and privation.
The front doors opened again, and the sergeant and guard who had earlier carried off Fritz, the barber, entered. Again gun butts thumped ominously. Jane looked over her shoulder at the khaki-coated men, and confided in the Shermans:
"I think that man's been following me ever since I landed from the ferry."
"I have," answered the sergeant, stepping briskly forward and saluting. "You are a stranger on the Rock. You come here from----"
"From Paris, by motor, to the town across the bay; then over here on the ferry," the girl answered promptly. "What about it?"
"Jane Gerson. Yes, yes, it sounds German, I know. But that's not my fault. I'm an American--a red-hot American, too, for the last two weeks."
"To New York, on the _Saxonia_, just as soon as I can. And the British army can't stop me."
"Indeed!" The sergeant permitted himself a fleeting smile. "From Paris by motor, eh? Your passports, please."
"I haven't any," Jane retorted, with a shade of defiance. "They were taken from me in Spain, just over the French border, and were not returned."
The sergeant raised his eyebrows in surprise not unmixed with irony. He pointed to the two big osier baskets, demanding to know what they contained.
"Gowns--the last gowns made in Paris before the crash. Fashion's last gasp. I am a buyer of gowns for Hildebrand's store in New York."
Ecstatic gurgles of pleasure from Mrs. Sherman and her daughter greeted this announcement. They pressed about the baskets and regarded them lovingly.
The sergeant pushed them away and tried to throw back the covers.
"Open your baggage--all of it!" he commanded snappishly.
Jane, explaining over her shoulder to the women, stooped to fumble with the hasps.
"Seventy of the darlingest gowns--the very last Paul Poiret and Paquin and Worth made before they closed shop and marched away with their regiments. You shall see every one of them."