ay she had stood just outside the
kitchen door. To-day her office was usurped by a hefty cook with the
sleeves of his grey shirt rolled up and his collar open and vast and
tight-hitched braces unromantically strapped all over him. Doggie felt
a pang of disappointment and abused the tea. Mo Shendish stared, and
asked what was wrong with it.

"Rotten," said Doggie.

"You can't expect yer slap-up City A.B.C. shops in France," said Mo.

Doggie, who was beginning to acquire a sense of rueful humour, smiled
and was appeased.

It was only in the afternoon that he saw the girl again. She was
standing in the doorway of the house, with her hand on her bosom, as
though she had just come out to breathe fresh air, when Doggie and his
two friends emerged from the yard. As their eyes met, she greeted him
with her sad little smile. Emboldened, he stepped forward.

"_Bon jour, mademoiselle._"

"_Bon jour, monsieur._"

"I hope madame your aunt is better to-day."

She seemed to derive some dry amusement from his solicitude.

"Alas, no, monsieur."

"Was that why I had not the pleasure of seeing you this morning?"

"Where?"

"Yesterday you filled our tea-kettles."

"But, monsieur," she replied primly, "I am not the _vivandiere_ of
the regiment."

"That's a pity," laughed Doggie.

Then he became aware of the adjacent forms and staring eyes of Phineas
and Mo, who for the first time in their military career beheld him on
easy terms with a strange and prepossessing young woman. After a
second's thought he came to a diplomatic decision.

"Mademoiselle," said he, in his best Durdlebury manner, "may I dare to
present my two comrades, my best friends in the battalion, Monsieur
McPhail, Monsieur Shendish?"

She made them each a little formal bow, and then, somewhat
maliciously, addressing McPhail, as the bigger and the elder of the
two:

"I don't yet know the name of your friend."

Phineas put his great hand on Doggie's shoulder.

"James Marmaduke Trevor."

"Otherwise called Doggie, miss," said Mo.

She made a little graceful gesture of non-comprehension.

"_Non compree?_" asked Mo.

"No, monsieur."

Phineas explained, in his rasping and consciously translated French:

"It is a nickname of the regiment. Doggie."

The flushed and embarrassed subject of the discussion saw her lips
move silently to the word.

"But his name is Trevor. Monsieur Trevor," said Phineas.

She smiled again. And the strange thing about h