We stepped into the kitchen. A smiling, twinkling-eyed _cuistot_[11] who probably had something awful the matter with him—flat-foot or hernia or something of the kind, or he wouldn’t have been there—with pride asked us to partake of some of his coffee. He proceeded to dip it from a great, steaming caldron, pouring it into worn tin cups carefully wiped first on his much-used apron. My soul responding to echoes of fraternity enabled me to drink with a smile, which, though it started out rather sickly, behaved all right as I returned the cup with compliments. The _cuistot_ said he hoped the _cantine_ would soon be in order, and as he looked through the small opening through which he shoved the cups to the _poilus_, rendered still smaller by piles of bread and festoons of sausage, he added, “_Les têtes de ces dames seront plus consolantes que la mienne_.” He was a nice, human _cuistot_, though no lover of water except for making coffee, and then, as we fell into conversation, he added, “_Si la guerre pouvait finir; mais il y a un fossé de dignité et personne des deux côtés n’ose le sauter_.” These _poilus_ are astounding! We then visited Lieutenant Tonzin, who is going to decorate the _cantine_ as never _cantine_ was decorated. He was at the camouflage grounds. As one knows, camouflage is _de l’art de la guerre le dernier cri_, but the grounds were discreetly veiled from public gaze, and we were directed into a little garden, green-treed and sun-flecked. In it was a trestle with a large, very clever, plaster cast of a _camion_ taking _poilus_ somewhere; they were hanging from every possible place except the wheels, just such a sight as one constantly sees on the roads near the front. The gayest sounds of whistling and singing issued from the rather coquet sun-flooded house behind the garden. Several other young artists appeared on hearing women’s voices, loving life, adoring art with a new adoration, and who with something of wonder and much of thankfulness found themselves for a sweet, brief space in charge of the camouflage work, with brush and chisel again in hand instead of bayonets. We looked at the designs for the _cantine_ decorations, quite charming—but we delicately suggested suppressing the figure of a too fascinating “mees” that was to embellish the entrance and point to the _poilus_ the way to those delights. We feared some confusion of thought.