d suddenly, "what's 'savon jollymouse'?"

"Savon," the doctor began didactically, "is a preparation of fatty acids
saponified with alkali. It is principally manufactured from coker-nut oil,
although other similar, if less offensive, substances are sometimes
employed. In the English tongue it is known as 'soap,' and----"

"You idiot," said the War Babe amiably, "I know what 'savon' is. But what's
a 'jollymouse'?"

"A rodent," replied the Doctor--"a small rodent in a state of mental
exhilaration or merriment."

"Rats."

"Yes, the same definition would also apply to rats. _Jolly_ rats, that is
to say."

"You're very bright to-day, Doctor," said the War Babe, "but it doesn't
happen to be that kind of mouse at all. It's j-o-l-i, jolly; m-o-u-s-s-e
----"

"Why didn't you say that before? That's quite different. It's pronounced
moose--zholimoose."

The War Babe sniffed.

"I don't believe you know what it means any more than I do."

"Son of Mars," the Doctor answered gravely, "you are measuring my ignorance
by your own--a great mistake. As a matter of fact that word is put on the
packet simply to deceive unwary Babes. It has nothing whatever to do with
soap."

"Well, since you know so much," said the War Babe, closing with his
opponent, "what _is_ a jollymouse or whatever you call it?"

"A zholimoose, my dear," the Doctor began, "is very hard to describe and
has to be seen to be believed. A War Babe would probably not recognise one
if he saw it. To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o'-the-
wispish----"

The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner
door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real.
The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with
triumph.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a low vibrating tone, "behold the zholimoose.
Hush. It will probably come closer if you don't frighten it."

"Have you got the landing-net?" whispered James hoarsely.

"Yes. And the killing bottle. It's this War Babe I'm afraid of. He's sure
to scare it. Don't glare at her like that, War Babe. Pretend you're a
soap-box."

She hovered on the threshold. It seemed touch and go... and then the War
Babe broke the ice in his choicest French.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Messieurs!" She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all.

"Tay avec--er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay," the Doctor ground out in his
execrable lingo. "And--er--I never can r