"Monsieur Merrier!" He held out his hand. It was the aspirant he had drunk beer with weeks ago at Brocourt. "Hah! It's you!" "So you are en repos here, too?" "Yes, indeed. But you two come in and see us; we are dying of the blues." "We'd love to stop in for a second." A fire smouldered in the big hearth of the farmhouse kitchen, sending a little irregular fringe of red light out over the tiled floor. At the end of the room towards the door three men were seated round a table, smoking. A candle threw their huge and grotesque shadows on the floor and on the whitewashed walls, and lit up the dark beams of that part of the ceiling. The three men got up and everyone shook hands, filling the room with swaying giant shadows. Champagne was brought and tin cups and more candles, and the Americans were given the two most comfortable chairs. "It's such a find to have Americans who speak French," said a bearded man with unusually large brilliant eyes. He had been introduced as André Dubois, "a very terrible person," had added Merrier, laughing. The cork popped out of the bottle he had been struggling with. "You see, we never can find out what you think about things.... All we can do is to be sympathetically inane, and _vive les braves alliés_ and that sort of stuff." "I doubt if we Americans do think," said Martin. "Cigarettes, who wants some cigarettes?" cried Lully, a small man with a very brown oval face to which long eyelashes and a little bit of silky black moustache gave almost a winsomeness. When he laughed he showed brilliant, very regular teeth. As he handed the cigarettes about he looked searchingly at Martin with eyes disconcertingly intense. "Merrier has told us about you," he said. "You seem to be the first American we've met who agreed with us." "What about?" "About the war, of course." "Yes," took up the fourth man, a blonde Norman with an impressive, rather majestic face, "we were very interested. You see, we bore each other, talking always among ourselves.... I hope you won't be offended if I agree with you in saying that Americans never think. I've been in Texas, you see." "Really?" "Yes, I went to a Jesuit College in Dallas. I was preparing to enter the Society of Jesus." "How long have you been in the war?" asked André Dubois, passing his hand across his beard. "We've both been in the same length of time--about six months." "Do you like it?" "I don't have a bad time.... But the people in Boccaccio managed to enjoy themselves while the plague was at Florence. That seems to me the only way to take the war." "We have no villa to take refuge in, though," said Dubois, "and we have forgotten all our amusing stories." "And in America--they like the war?" "They don't know what it is. They are like children. They believe everything they are told, you see; they have had no experience in international affairs, like you Europeans. To me our entrance into the war is a tragedy."