Mrs. Schiller.
[Looking at her.] No chance to-day either, dear?
Margaret.
Neither to-day, nor to-morrow, nor any day,
auntie.
Mrs. Schiller.
Wasn't the lady satisfied with your certificates?
Margaret.
Oh, my certificates were all right. But when she
heard who I was——[Stops, with a gesture of despair.]
Mrs. Schiller.
Oh dear! Oh dear! Your father again, I suppose?
Margaret.
Yes, my poor father again. Oh, how they hate
us, these English! How they hate and hate us.
Mrs. Schiller.
It's only the war, dear. War is a poison that
seems to turn people's blood into gall.
Margaret.
Then the blood of the English must be all gall,
auntie.
Mrs. Schiller.
Ours, too—you must admit that, Margaret.
Margaret.
Mine wasn't until they made it so. I was born
here. I tried to love this country. [With emotion.]
