Wayland told him. "I don’t know," said the flight-lieutenant; "I’ll have to try to get somewhere. I suppose it is useless for me to ask," he added, "but have you, by any chance, a bit of canvas--an old sail or hammock?--I don’t need much. That’s what I came for--and some shellac and wire, and a screwdriver of sorts? We need patching as well as petrol; and we’re a little short of supplies." Wayland’s steady gaze never left him, but his smile was friendly. "We’re in a tearing hurry, too," added the flight-lieutenant, looking out of the window. Wayland smiled. "Of course there’s no petrol here. There’s nothing here. I don’t suppose you could have landed in a more deserted region if you had tried. There’s a château in the Laïs woods, but it’s closed; owner and servants are at the war and the family in Paris." He shrugged his shoulders. "Everybody has cleared out; the war has stripped the country; and there never were any people on these moors, excepting shooting parties and, in the summer, a stray artist or two from Quimperlé." The lieutenant looked at him. "You say there is nobody here--between here and Lorient? No--troops?" "There’s nothing to guard. The coast is one vast shoal. Ships pass hull down. Once a day a coast guard patrols along the cliffs----" "When?" "He has passed, unfortunately. Otherwise he might signal by relay to Lorient and have them send you out some petrol. By the way--are you hungry?" The flight-lieutenant showed all his firm, white teeth under a yellow mustache, which curled somewhat upward. He laughed in a carefree way, as though something had suddenly eased his mind of perplexity--perhaps the certainty that there was no possible chance for petrol. Certainty is said to be more endurable than suspense. "I’ll stop for a bite--if you don’t mind--while my pilot tinkers out yonder," he said. "We’re not in such a bad way. It might easily have been worse. Do you think you could find us a bit of sail, or something, to use for patching?" Wayland indicated an old high-backed chair of oak, quaintly embellished with ancient leather in faded blue and gold. It had been a royal chair in its day, or the Fleur-de-Lys lied. The flight-lieutenant seated himself with a rather stiff bow. "If you need canvas"--Wayland hesitated--then, gravely: "There are, in my room, a number of artists’ _toiles_--old chassis with the blank canvas still untouched." "Exactly what we need!" exclaimed the other. "What luck, now, to meet a painter in such a place as this!" "They belonged to my father," explained Wayland. "We--Marie-Josephine and I--have always kept my father’s old canvases and colours--everything of his.... I’ll be glad to give them to a British soldier.... They’re about all I have that was his--except that oak chair you sit on." He rose on his crutches, spoke briefly in Breton to Marie-Josephine, then limped slowly away to his room.