the existence of civilians. It is contrary to
Army Orders to salute or to take off their caps. They can only jerk
their heads and grin, an inelegant proceeding, which places them at a
disadvantage with the fair sex. Doggie, therefore, sketched a vague
salutation half-way between a salute and a bow, and began a profuse
apology. Mademoiselle must pardon his curiosity, but as a lover of old
things he had been struck by the beautiful _tonneau_.

An amused light came into her sombre eyes and a smile flickered round
her lips. Doggie noted instantly how pale she was, and how tiny, faint
little lines persisted at the corners of those lips in spite of the
smile.

"There is no reason for excuses, monsieur," she said. "The door was
open to the view of everybody."

"_Pourtant_," said Doggie, "_c'etait un peu mal eleve_."

She laughed. "Pardon. But it's droll. First to find an English soldier
apologizing for looking into a house, and then to find him talking
French like a _poilu_."

Doggie said, with a little touch of national jealousy and a reversion
to Durdlebury punctilio: "I hope, mademoiselle, you have always found
the English soldier conduct himself like a gentleman."

"_Mais oui, mais oui!_" she cried, "they are all charming. _Ils sont
doux comme des moutons._ But this is a question of delicacy--somewhat
exaggerated."

"It's good of you, mademoiselle, to forgive me," said Doggie.

By all the rules of polite intercourse, either Doggie should have made
his bow and exit, or the maiden, exercising her prerogative, should
have given him the opportunity of a graceful withdrawal. But they
remained where they were, the girl framed by the doorway, the lithe
little figure in khaki and lichen-coloured helmet looking up at her
from the foot of the two front steps.

At last he said in some embarrassment: "That's a very beautiful cask
of yours."

She wavered for a few seconds. Then she said:

"You can enter, monsieur, and examine it, if you like."

Mademoiselle was very amiable, said Doggie. Mademoiselle moved aside
and Doggie entered, taking off his helmet and holding it under his arm
like an opera-hat. There was nothing much to see in the little
vestibule-parlour: a stiff tasselled chair or two, a great old
linen-press taking up most of one side of a wall, a cheap table
covered with a chenille tablecloth, and the resplendent old cask,
about which he lingered. He mentioned Brittany. Her tragic face
lighted up again. Monsie