Then when we had seen them all fixed up, we foraged round for our own billets. Mine proved a little brick-floored apartment, in which you might just swing a very small cat if you felt like that kind of jugglery, opening out of the main room, or bar, of an estaminet--the French village version of our inn, you know. Here, when they had had their sleep, the men began to flock this afternoon for refreshment. The drinking is quite innocent, mostly café au lait, and occasionally cider. The sale of spirits is (very wisely) entirely prohibited. It's most amusing to hear our chaps "slinging the bat." They are still at the stage of thinking that if they shout loudly enough they must be understood, and it is rather as a sort of good-humoured concession to the eccentricities of our French hosts, than with any idea of tackling another language, that they throw in their "Bon jor's" and the like. "Got any pang, Mum?" they ask cheerfully. Another repeats it, in a regular open-air auction shout, with a grin and an interrogative "Compree?" at the end of each remark. Some, still at the top of their voices, are even bold enough to try instructing the French. "Françaisee, 'pang'--see? In Engletairy, 'bread'--see? Compree? B-R-E-A-D, bread." And the kindly French women, with their smiling lips and anxious, war-worn eyes, they nod and acquiesce, and bustle in and out with yard-long loaves and bowls of coffee of precisely the same size as the diminutive wash-hand basin in my room. I tell you one's heart warms to these French women, in their workmanlike short frocks (nearly all black), thick, home-knitted stockings, and wooden clogs. How they keep the heels of their stockings so dry and clean, I can't think. The subject, you notice, is one of peculiar interest to all of us just now--sock heels, I mean.