The young woman smilingly shook her head. "It’s against our rules," she replied. Reggy looked distressed. We imitated his look with such success that another young woman, who seemed to be the one in authority, came forward and volunteered: "If you will step into the house, gentlemen, I shall see what the _concierge_ can do for you there." That we didn’t fall upon her neck in sheer thankfulness speaks well for our self-control. We kept sufficient restraint upon ourselves, however, to merely murmur our gratitude in becoming words. We explained that we had just arrived, and that our mess was not yet open. "Well, well," she laughed. "Of course, we can’t let you starve, but you really mustn’t eat in here." If the angels in heaven look anything like that sweet young woman as she appeared to us at that moment—well, it’s a great incentive to lead a good life, that’s all. We were ushered into a quaint French dining-room, furnished with hand-carved mahogany. That a carpenter should have such exquisite taste surprised us. We were yet to learn that the artistic sense is a keynote of French character. The owner of the cottage was away at the war; he was one of the poilus who were then, and are still, upholding the martial traditions of a noble fighting race. His wife spread a dainty table for us, and we breakfasted for the first time in France. Our menu consisted of small mackerel, rolls and coffee! How prosaic it sounds in English! We shall always remember that _petit dejeuner_ in French: _Petits maqueraux, petits pains et café-au-lait._ What music there is in such a language! The food itself loses its identity and is transformed into the sustenance of the gods! Days passed by, but there was no word from our colonel, and no orders came for us to move. Had they all forgotten us? Had we by mischance taken the wrong boat and landed in the wrong part of France? What had become of our colonel and the rest of our unit? These thoughts perplexed and worried us. But one day, as we were lunching, a messenger suddenly appeared at the tent door and asked for the senior major. "Telegram for you, sir," he said. The major slowly unfolded it, read it as slowly, refolded it and placed it in his pocket without a word. Could it be from the colonel? If so, where was he? The major continued his meal. At last Fraser could bear the suspense no longer. "Was that a message from the colonel?" he inquired anxiously. "It was," the major replied. One might have heard the proverbial pin drop—the strain was so intense. Would he never go on? Were we to hear nothing further? Fraser ventured again: "What does he say?" The senior major got up and left the tent without a word.