of
course; it only has that name among us.

As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a _bonne_ was serving
several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced,
stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and
then with a tremendous "_Tiens!_" he came out from behind the tables and
advanced toward me.

"_Bon jour_," he said; "do you come from far?"

"Oh, no," I answered, "only from ----."

"_Tiens!_" he repeated; then, "Ah, you are from the school." _L'ecole_,
he called it.

From _l'ecole_, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a
door at the rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge
voice he called "_Suzanne, un [v]pilote!_" and I was introduced.

As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three
old men staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread
and cheese in their hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light
steps and a rustle of skirts, and Suzanne was before me with smiling
face and outstretched hand.

Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood
the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air
route.

Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it
isn't that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once
you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family--that is the charm of
Suzanne's.

After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been
there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to
[v]"_Ma belle mere_," a white-haired old lady sitting in a big,
straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to
me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she
went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.

A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to
see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and
slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little
work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her
bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house,
there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on
the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help
noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a
story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an
expressio