yable_." Out of his round, soft, putty-coloured face he made
fifteen other faces in rapid succession, all incomparably absurd. He lit
a cigarette and held it between his lower lip and his chin. The effect
was of a miraculous transformation of those features, in which his upper
lip disappeared altogether, his lower lip took on its functions, while
his chin ceased to be a chin and became a lower lip. With this
achievement Prosper Panne had his audience in the hollow of his hands.
He could do what he liked with it. He did. He caused his motor-glove cap
to fall from his head as if by some mysterious movement of its own. Then
he went round the stalls and gravely and earnestly removed all our hats.
With an air more and more "_impayable_" he wore each one of them in
turn--the grey felt wide-awake of the wild-western cowboy, the knitted
Jaeger head-gear of the little Arctic explorer, the dark-blue military
cap with the red tassel assumed by Dr. Bird, even the green cap with the
winged symbol of the young Belgian officer. By this time the young
Belgian officer was so entirely the thrall of Prosper Panne that he
didn't turn a hair.

Flushed with success, Max rose to his top-notch. Moving slowly towards
the open door (centre) with his back to his audience and his head turned
towards it over his left shoulder, by some extraordinary dislocation of
his hip-joints, he achieved the immemorial salutation of the _Folies
Bergeres_--the last faint survival of the Old Athenian Comedy.

Up till now Jean had affected to ignore the performance of his
colleague. But under this supreme provocation he yielded to the
Aristophanic impulse, and--_exit_ Max in the approved manner of the
_Folies Bergeres_.

* * * * *

It is all over. The young Belgian officer has flown away on his motor
cycle to pot Germans; Mrs. Torrence has gone off to the field with the
Colonel on the quest of the greatest possible danger. The Ambulance has
followed them there.

I am in the mess-room, sitting at the disordered table and gazing at the
ruins of our mess. I hear again the wild laughter of the mess-mates; it
mingles with the cry of the refugees in the Palais des Fetes: "_Une
petite tranche de pain, s'il vous plait, mademoiselle!_"

_C'est triste, n'est-ce pas?_

In the chair by the window Max lies back with his loose boyish legs
extended limply in front of him; his round, close-cropped head droops to
his shoulder, his round face (