I thought it was about time to do something for the officers, as they need fun just as much as the enlisted men, so I proposed a dance. "Where will you get the girls?" they said. "The Red Cross nurses in Sémur," said I. "There is no hall here large enough for a dance," said they. "Yes there is!" said I. Mme. Gloriod had told me of a wooden floor made to fit over the tank in the village "lavoir," which the mayor of Pouillenay had had made in the happy days before the war. The lavoir is a good-sized stone structure with a large tank of soapy water in the middle, round which the women scrub and pound their clothes, gossiping, laughing and scolding all the day long in their raucous French. It is not easy to imagine an up-to-date American dance in this mediaeval, sloppy spot. The Major and a few other optimists backed me up and told me to go ahead. After more or less trouble I got the Red Cross nurses and four or five "Y" girls from various towns committed to last Thursday evening. One lieutenant engaged the Sémur orchestra, which is several months older and more professional than ours. Then I made a memorable call on the Mayor of Pouillenay, M. Champenois, a delightful, impressive old Frenchman. I found him in the parlor of his little stone house seated at a huge desk; his sweet little wife, with black lace in her hair, tending the fire. They made me come in and sit down, and an hour went by in the discussion of art, literature, and the affairs of the world, before they would let me approach the business of the day. When finally I did make my errand known, he granted me the lavoir free of charge, undertaking to have the floor put down himself. We parted the best of friends. Then followed two days of real work; scrubbing, heating, and decorating and lighting the lavoir. To make a long story short, it was charming when we got through. Evergreens, flags, candles and four electric lights softened and illuminated the dank old place, while two stoves made it reasonably dry and warm. The floor was sprinkled with cornmeal. And the dance was a real success; lots of fun, and also with something distinguished and graceful about it. It was what you might call "a real lace party," though the only lace on the scene were the festoons of ancient cobwebs that swayed from the big oaken rafters high above the reach of the longest broom. As the atmosphere of a battalion radiates from its commanding officer, I give Major S. the credit for that unmistakable "touch" that marked our dance.