ttle roll became a deadly _obus_ in her
hand. She turned. Her innocent abstraction was intense as she poised
herself to aim.

With a shout of laughter Dr. Bird ducked behind the cover of his
table-napkin.

I had a sudden memory of Mrs. Torrence in command of the party at
Ostend, a figure of austere duty, of inexorable propriety, rigid with
the discipline of the ---- Hospital, restraining the criminal levity of
the Red Cross volunteer who would look or dream of looking at Ostend
Cathedral. Mrs. Torrence, like a seven-year-old child meditating
mischief, like a baby panther at play, like a very young and very
engaging demon let loose, is looking at Dr. Bird. He is not a Cathedral,
but he suffered bombardment all the same. She got his range with a roll.
She landed her shell in the very centre of his waistcoat.

Her madness entered into Dr. Bird. He replied with a spirited fire which
fell wide of her and battered the mess-room door. The orderlies
retreated for shelter into the vestibule beyond. Jean was the first to
penetrate the line of fire. Max followed him.

Madness entered into Max. He ceased to be a hospital orderly. He became
Prosper Panne again, the very young _collegien_, as he put down his
dishes and glided unobtrusively into the affair.

And then the young Belgian Lieutenant went mad. But he gave way by
degrees. At first he sat up straight and stiff with polite astonishment
before the spectacle of a British "rag." He paid the dubious tribute of
a weak giggle to the bombardment of Dr. Bird. He was convulsed at the
first performance of Prosper Panne. In his final collapse he was rocking
to and fro and crowing with helpless, hysterical laughter.

For with the entrance of Prosper Panne the mess-room became a scene at
the _Folies Bergeres_. There was Mrs. Torrence, _premiere comedienne_,
in the costume of a wild-western cowboy; there was the young Lieutenant
himself, looking like a stage-lieutenant in the dark-green uniform of
the Belgian Motor Cyclist Corps; and there was Prosper Panne. He began
by picking up Mrs. Torrence's brown leather motor glove with its huge
gauntlet, and examining it with the deliciously foolish bewilderment of
the accomplished clown. After one or two failures, brilliantly
improvised, he fixed it firmly on his head. The huge gauntlet, with its
limp five fingers dangling over his left ear, became a rakish kepi with
a five-pointed flap. Max--I mean Prosper Panne--wore it with an "_air
impa