Somewhat later Sara Lee was ushered downstairs by the neat maid, who
stood on the steps and blew a whistle for a taxi--Sara Lee had come in
a bus. She carried in her hand the address of a Belgian commission of
relief at the Savoy Hotel, and in her heart, for the first time, a doubt
of her errand. She gave the Savoy address mechanically and, huddled in
a corner, gave way to wild and fearful misgivings.

Coming up she had sat on top of the bus and watched with wide curious,
eyes the strange traffic of London. The park had fascinated her--the
little groups of drilling men in khaki, the mellow tones of a bugle, and
here and there on the bridle paths well-groomed men and women on
horseback, as clean-cut as the horses they rode, and on the surface as
careless of what was happening across the Channel. But she saw nothing
now. She sat back and twisted Harvey's ring on her finger, and saw
herself going back, her work undone, her faith in herself shattered.
And Harvey's arms and the Leete house ready to receive her.

However, a ray of hope opened for her at the Savoy--not much, a prospect.

The Savoy was crowded. Men in uniform, a sprinkling of anxious-faced
wives and daughters, and more than a sprinkling of gaily dressed
and painted women, filled the lobby or made their way slowly up and
down the staircase. It was all so utterly different from what she had
expected--so bright, so full of life. These well-fed people they seemed
happy enough. Were they all wrong back home? Was the war the ghastly
thing they thought it?

Long months afterward Sara Lee was to learn that the Savoy was not
London. She was to learn other things--that America knew more, through
a free press, of war conditions than did England. And she was to