The _poilu_ didn’t wait for even the first knock before he said, “Demanges-aux-Eaux,” and then the American treated him to chocolate and offered him a “Lucky Strike” cigarette and began some exotic pronunciation of Demanges-aux-Eaux. There’s always one special thing in every situation in life that comes hard. Now I must confess that whenever I have to take a damp, dark-brown cloth in my hand and mop up puddles of spilled chocolate and coffee from the tiled counter, I feel an invincible repugnance. To-day four Americans came in together. A nice, tall, evidently perceptive one said, unexpectedly: “Just give me that rag.” As I gratefully surrendered the clammy thing he continued: “I will be here all the afternoon and you’ll find me mopping any time you like.” He subsequently ordered four fried eggs apiece for himself and a _poilu_, and then took a whole box of the little sweet round biscuits that we were selling rather gingerly by twos and threes, came back from time to time for bowls of chocolate, when he would cheerfully mop the counter for me. Finally I said: “What is your name?” And he answered: “Smith. There’re a few of us,” he added, and then with a twinkle, “but I’m John. Now what do you say to a swap?” “I’m Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.” “I bet I spot you. I was in Mexico last summer. Say, wasn’t your husband mixed up with old Huerta?” I had to answer “yes” to this version of history. “I wasn’t much on dust when I was down there, but there’s too much water here. However,” he continued, cheerfully, “we’ve got to tin the Teut or he’ll tin us.” Then he added, in a confidential voice: “What do you think of the war? I get mixed sometimes.” I had noticed a small amethyst ring in the shape of a pansy on one of his large fingers as he was mopping, so, after disposing of his question in the briefest and most effective way by remarking that it was “up to us all” to do every bit we could to win the war, to which he agreed, I asked: “Are you engaged?” “To one beaut,” he answered, without an instant’s hesitation. “Met her in San Antonio last summer, but I guess she’s the kind that waits. Gee! they were around her like flies, but I shoo’d ’em all off.” And he pulled out the picture of a girl with large dark eyes half hidden in love-locks, and showing a lot of white teeth between pleasure-ready lips. What appeared of her person was clad in the most “peek-a-boo” of blouses, and there was a twist of white tulle about it all. I wondered if she was the “kind that waits.” I had a sudden affection for John Smith, thinking, however, as he passed out of the door, that his identification disk would be more definite than his name, and then, for an instant, I pondered on the supremely elemental thing he’s come for.