The place was not much changed. It was soiled, impoverished, battered by War, but the German advance, which had stopped dead a few miles short of it, had been spent by the time it reached its limits in this sector, and had early been pushed back. Trenches had been dug and camouflage erected all round the place, but it had not suffered damage except by a few long-distance shots, the routine of trench warfare had never reached it. In the kitchen, darkened by the fact that the glass was gone from the windows, which were blinded with aeroplane fabric, stood the familiar figure of Mademoiselle Vanderlynden. He asked for the Colonel, and was civilly directed to the parlour on the other side of the door. Not a word of recognition, hardly a second glance. He did not know if he were sorry or glad. He would have felt some relief to hear that the claim that had caused all that trouble had been settled. But he did not know what he might bring down upon his head by inquiry and held his tongue. His business with the Colonel was the usual regimental routine, nominal and numerical rolls, reinforcements and indents, training and movements. It did not take long. On his way out he passed the kitchen door and said just: “Good night, Mademoiselle!” “Good night, M’sieu!” And then calmly: “They are going to pay us for the damage to _La Vierge_!” “I am glad to hear it.” “I thought you would like to know. It has been a long time.” “Yes, a long time. I hope it will soon be settled.” “Ah, not yet. I know these offices at Boulogne! They have a good deal to pay for, no doubt.” “No doubt. Good night, Mademoiselle!” “Good night, _mon capitaine_.”