ds of other little tables well-dressed people were lunching, a
goodly sprinkling of officers in uniform among them.

At the next table to their own was a stout Major, whom Dennis instantly
identified as a "dug-out."

His face was flushed and he was talking loudly, names of battalions
flowing glibly from his well-oiled tongue. His companions were an
over-dressed lady and a young "nut" who ought to have been in uniform.

"There's no doubt about it," said the Major. "My battalion--the
Sloggers, you know--absolutely take the biscuit. The --th are a very
decent crush, and so are the --th and the --th. They make up our
brigade, you know. I shall just get back in time, and as soon as I
arrive we have orders to leave Barbillier to support Dashwood's Brigade,
which has been awfully cut up in this last business."

"Confound that old gasbag!" muttered Dennis, leaning across the table to
Wetherby. "That's the way information gets about--he's no right to be
talking like that."

"Certainly not," replied Wetherby, "but I think they're going now. That
waitress girl is making out the bill--a pretty long one, too--she's been
writing hard for the last five minutes."

"You see, what really happened was this," continued the red-faced Major,
"Dashwood's Brigade was at ----"

"You'll excuse me, sir," said a voice, "but I happen to be in Dashwood's
Brigade, and we're not at all anxious that our movements should be given
broadcast in a place like this."

"Eh, what!" stuttered the field officer, looking at the single star
that adorned Dennis's cuff, and waxing furious. "What the dickens is the
service coming to? Do you know who I am, sir?" And he fixed his eyeglass
into the frown that was intended to slay this young whippersnapper who
presumed to dictate to a man with a crown on his shoulder.

But Dennis made no reply, for his eyes were resting on the white-aproned
waitress, who was busy with her pay-book, and he saw two things.

One was that it was no bill she was making out; the other, that the red
hair under her coquettish little cap matched oddly with the great black
eyes that were bent on her writing.

"Pardon me," he said, striding behind the Major's chair; and as his hand
stretched forward for the pay-book the waitress looked up, and he knew
that it was Ottilie Von Dussel!

"You here!" he exclaimed, and the perforated leaf on which she had been
writing came away in his fingers as she closed the book.

She gave a little cry,