One day a trifling incident occupied Kenneth’s attention for a moment. He happened to have gone into a little shop to buy cakes for the children of the good people upon whom he was billeted. Several of the men were there making purchases, and one of them was vainly trying to explain his wants to the shopkeeper. Stoneway was standing by. Kenneth translated for his baffled comrade; then, suddenly remembering what he had overheard on the platform at St. Pancras station, he said to him: "Why didn’t you ask Stoneway to help you? He speaks French." Stoneway looked astonished and startled, but said at once: "Me! I know a word or two, but you can’t call it speaking French. I couldn’t do it." Kenneth said no more, though his recollection of the energetic conversation at the station was very clear, and he wondered why the man had denied his accomplishment. There was only one opinion of the kindness and hospitality of the villagers, and the men were particularly enthusiastic about the owner of the house across the road. Far from limiting himself to the sumptuous entertainment of the officers billeted on him, he went out of his way to lavish attentions on the soldiers, making them presents of cigarettes, and treating them to the wine of the country. The village had not suffered from the ravages of war, though the Germans had occupied it for a few days during their rush towards Calais; but it harboured many refugees from towns and villages farther eastward, and these were supported by the benevolent owner of the large house, who maintained a sort of soup kitchen where the homeless people could obtain free rations. One evening, when Kenneth and his comrades were at supper in their host’s capacious kitchen, the talk turned on Monsieur Obernai, "the mounseer over the way," as Ginger called him, "one of the best." Jean Bonnard, the cottager, and his wife took their meals with their guests, and chatted freely to Kenneth and Harry, the only men who knew enough French to understand them. Kenneth repeated in French what Ginger had said. "Ah yes, monsieur," said Bonnard. "Monsieur Obernai is a good man. You see, he is from Alsace, and has reason to hate the Germans." "All the same, I don’t like him," said his wife, pressing her lips together. "That is a point on which we don’t agree," said Bonnard, with a smile. "Just like a woman! She doesn’t like him, but she can’t say why." "You hear him!" said madame. "Just like a woman! As if a woman was not always right!" "But you have a reason, madame?" said Harry. "Bah! I leave reasons to men; I have my feelings." Bonnard shrugged his shoulders.