The M. P. stared at Mr. Travers, and Mr. Travers stared back defiantly.

"What in the name of God is she going to cook?"

"Soup," said Mr. Travers in a voice of suppressed irritation. "She's
got a little money, and she wants to establish a soup kitchen behind
the Belgian trenches on a line of communication. I suppose," he
continued angrily, "even you will admit that the Belgian Army needs all
the soup it can get."

"I don't approve of women near the lines."

"Neither do I. But I'm exceedingly glad that a few of them have the
courage to go there."

"What's she going to make soup out of?"

"I'm not a cooking expert. But I know her and I fancy she'll manage."

It ended by the M. P. agreeing to use his influence with the War Office
to get Sara Lee to France. He was very unwilling. The spy question was
looming large those days. Even the Red Cross had unwittingly spread its
protection over more than one German agent. The lines were being
drawn in.

"I may possibly get her to France. I don't know, of course," he said in
that ungracious tone in which an Englishman often grants a favor which
he will go to any amount of trouble to do. "After that it's up to her."