“In America many women wear uniforms. We like them.” Mary smiled. “I happen to be a member of the Ferry Command.”

“And you flew a big plane all the way! How wonderful! Shall there be many more of you?”

“No—I—” Mary broke off. She had been about to say, “I may be the only one. Mine is a special mission.”

“What a fool I am,” she thought.

“I came for the ride really,” she said, covering up deftly. “My father is over here somewhere.”

“Ah! You brave Americans!” the woman exclaimed. “They saved my country, France, in the last war and now—”

“Now you expect us to do it again,” Mary wanted to say. “And over here you are divided. You don’t really know what you want.”

She did not say this, nor did the woman finish, for at that moment a bright-eyed young woman in khaki entered the place and walked straight to their table to ask:

“Are you Mary Mason?”

“Yes.” Mary stood up.

“I’ve been asked to speak to you—that, that is I have a message for you.” The girl seemed embarrassed. “Perhaps—”

“No! No!” The French woman was on her feet. “I have urgent business. I was about to go. It is good to have seen you—” She bowed to Mary and was gone.

“Will you forgive me.” The girl in khaki dropped into a seat. “I just had to do it. I never saw that woman before. She may be all right. You never know. Over here half the people are for us, the other half against. You dare trust no one. You didn’t—” She hesitated.

“I didn’t tell her a thing worth knowing.” Mary smiled. “Will you have a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, sure!” The other girl’s face beamed. “Real American girls are so rare here.”

“You are a WAC?” Mary suggested.

“Yes, of course. There are very few of us here now, but there will be more and more.” Her voice dropped. “That’s the sort of things they want to know,” she confided in a whisper.

They talked, sipped coffee, and munched cakes until Sparky hurried into the place.

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