at it was slowing down close behind our imposing auto, from
which a few small pieces of luggage for the night were being removed.

The Red Cross travellers were evidently impatient. They did not wait for
our chauffeur to drive away. The conductor of the car jumped down and
opened the door of his nondescript vehicle. I made out, under a thick
coat of dust, that he wore khaki of some sort, and a cap of military
shape which might be anything from British to Belgian. He gave a hand to
a woman in the car--a woman in nurse's dress. A thick veil covered her
face, but her figure was girlish. I noticed that she was extremely small
and slim in her long, dust-dimmed blue cloak: a mere doll of a creature.

The man's back was turned toward me as he aided the nurse; but suddenly
he flung a glance over his shoulder, and stared straight at me, as if he
had expected to find me there.

He was rather short, and too squarely built for his age, which might be
twenty-eight or thirty at most; but his great dark eyes were splendid,
so gorgeously bright and significant that they held mine for a second or
two. This vexed me, and I turned away with as haughty an air as could be
put on at an instant's notice.

The hotel had no private sitting rooms, but the landlord offered Mr.
Beckett for our use a small _salle de lecture_, adjourning the _salon
public_. There were folding doors between, for a wonder with a lock that
worked. By the time we'd bathed, and dressed again, it was the hour for
dinner, and Mr. Beckett suggested dining in our own "parlour," as he
called it.

The landlord himself brought a menu, which Mother Beckett accepted
indifferently up to the entremets "_omelette au rhum_." This she wished
changed for something--anything--made with Jim's favourite jam. "He
would want us to eat it at Bar-le-Duc," she said, with her air of taking
Jim's nearness and interest in our smallest acts for granted.

So "_omelette a la confiture de groseilles_" was ordered; and just as we
had come to the end of it and our meal, some one began to play the piano
in the public drawing room next door. At the first touch, I recognized a
master hand. The air was from Puccini's "La Tosca"--third act, and a
moment later a man's voice caught it up--a voice of velvet, a voice of
the heart--an Italian voice.

We all stopped eating as if we'd been struck by a spell. We hardly
breathed. The music had in it the honey of a million flowers distilled
into a crystal cup.