"Well, since you know so much," said the War Babe, closing with his opponent, "what _is_ a jollymouse or whatever you call it?" "A zholimoose, my dear," the Doctor began, "is very hard to describe and has to be seen to be believed. A War Babe would probably not recognise one if he saw it. To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o'-the- wispish----" The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real. The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with triumph. "Gentlemen," he said, in a low vibrating tone, "behold the zholimoose. Hush. It will probably come closer if you don't frighten it." "Have you got the landing-net?" whispered James hoarsely. "Yes. And the killing bottle. It's this War Babe I'm afraid of. He's sure to scare it. Don't glare at her like that, War Babe. Pretend you're a soap-box." She hovered on the threshold. It seemed touch and go... and then the War Babe broke the ice in his choicest French. "Mademoiselle!" "Messieurs!" She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all. "Tay avec--er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay," the Doctor ground out in his execrable lingo. "And--er--I never can remember the French for milk." "Lait?" I suggested. "That's it. Now, Mademoiselle-lay. But not canned stuff. Vray lay." Her eyes grew wider and wider at this strange jargon. "Comment, M'sieur?" "Vray lay." "I suppose you mean lait an naturel," growled James. "Du lait frais," I hazarded. "Ah. Comprends. C'est triste. Pas de lait frais. Les hopitaux prennent tout." "No milk?" wailed the Doctor. He looked fixedly at the table and one saw from the movement of his lips that he was mustering his forces for another plunge into the language. Meanwhile the War Babe, whose eyes had not left the girl's face, ventured again on the thin ice of speech. "Mademoiselle," he began hesitatingly. "Oui, M'sieur." She turned to him, the picture of rapt attention. "Ou est la jollymouse--moose, I mean?" She looked from one to another of us in perplexity. "Qu'est ce qu'il veut dire?" she asked. "Il veut voir la jolimousse," we explained, and the War Babe held out the soap-box, pointing with expressive pantomime to the words on it. Her eyes twinkled appreciatively. "Nous--nous supposerons que--vous etes--la jolimouse," said the War Babe slowly, choosing his words with care. "Bien sur," James added affirmatively. "Moi?" She rippled with laughter. "Oh non. Attendez, Messieurs. Ouait one mineet." She flitted through the door like some beautiful butterfly, and in a moment returned with the smallest, softest, warmest lump of blue-grey fur nestling against her. It was a tiny blue Persian kitten. "Voila!" she said, caressing it tenderly, "la jolimousse." She handed it gravely to the War Babe, who received it with almost reverend care.