René had risen in the excitement of his description. The candle light shone faintly upon his broad shoulders and handsome, inspired face. His right arm was extended in harmony with the vehemence of his description. He continued more softly: "Dat riviere is me; de falls is my lil’ gal at de turnin’-point of my life, an’ de great lake is my love which has burst over de fields of my fancy an’ freshes all de dry places. I can’t tell you how I love dat gal—sometimes I tink—maybe—I marry her some day." At this juncture the senior major had thrust his head inside the tent. "René," he called sternly, "get back to your work! Wash my rubber boots and keep an eye on the tent ’til I return." And poor René, thus rudely brought to earth, had crept silently away. At seven-thirty p.m., the shrill call of the bugle sounded "Officers’ Mess": "The officers’ wives get pudding and pies, The soldiers’ wives get skilly—" It is the one call which every officer, senior or junior, knows by heart, and answers promptly. A mess dinner is a parade, and is conducted with all the pomp and dignity peculiar to a Chinese wedding. Woe betide the untrained "sub" who dares seat himself before the Commanding Officer has taken his place at the centre of the table! For the first time since our arrival in France, we were to be honoured with the presence of several ladies, and the whole mess was in a state of excitement compatible with the seriousness of such an occasion. It was so long since any of us had dined under the charming, but restraining, influence of the fair sex that, as Reggy afterward remarked, he was in a condition bordering on nervous prostration lest he forget to eat the ice cream with his fork, or, worse still, "butter" his bread with _paté de fois gras_. Reggy had other worries on his mind as well. He had been taken aside early, and solemnly warned that if he, his heirs, executors or assigns, dared to bring forth upon the table so much as a smell of his ill-favoured cheese, he would be led out upon the sand dunes at early dawn and shot. This precaution having been duly taken, he was permitted to retire to the pantry with Fraser and Corporal Granger, and amuse himself making thirty Bronx cocktails for our express delectation. Promptly, as the last note of the bugle died away, the colonel and matron ushered our fair guests into the Mess Room. Had our long separation from the beautiful women of Canada whetted our sense of appreciation? Or was it some dim recollection of an almost-forgotten social world which stimulated our imagination? Certainly no more exquisite representatives of the, to us, long-lost tribe of lovely women ever graced a Mess Room in France!