"Dat’s a queer gent, sir," he observed to the colonel, "dat lady-shoffer ’cross de way. It ain’t on’y her boots wot’s like a man’s—de works in her belfry’s queer too." Reggy secretly sympathised with Tim’s discomfiture, for it was only the day before, when he had made a graceful but unavailing whack at a golf ball, that he had turned to see her watching him intently—hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth. "Rotten stroke, Miss Granville?" he remarked, to cover his annoyance; and she had coolly blown a cloud of smoke through her nostrils and replied: "You’re dead lucky to have hit it at all." As the car moved off Reggy exclaimed: "That’s the sort of girl who never gets a husband." "Why not?" queried the colonel. "Too much brain," Reggy returned. "It’s too humiliating for a man to have a wife cleverer than himself." "All depends upon the man," the colonel commented drily. Reggy ventured no reply to this ambiguous retort, but for the next few miles seemed lost in thought. An hour’s uneventful run brought us to the barricade on the outskirts of Boulogne. It consisted of two large waggons placed at an oblique angle across the road, at the foot of a steep hill. It was so ingeniously arranged that a motor car could not pass except at low speed. We were stopped by the French guard who stood with fixed bayonet—that long slender wicked-looking instrument, the sight of which makes cold shivers run up and down the back. The officer emerged from his little hut, and saluted with all the grace peculiar to the true Frenchman. "_Votre ’laisser-passer’ monsieur, si’l vous plais?_" he demanded politely. The colonel unfolded the large blue pass, duly signed and stamped. It was scrutinised closely, the name and number of the car were recorded, and the officer, once more saluting, motioned us to proceed. Running a barricade in France is not a healthful exercise. We did it once, by mistake, but an immediate rifle shot brought us to a halt. The sentry takes nothing for granted; if one goes through six times a day, the pass must be produced each time. Even the small towns of northern France cannot be entered or left without this ceremony. We lunched at _Mony’s_—every English and Canadian officer in France knows the spot—a small Italian restaurant close to the theatre, where substantial but delicious meals pop up from the cellar’s depths. In this small room with the sawdust-covered floor and the little glass partitioned stalls, the full-stomached Signor Mony beams upon a clientele such as no other like café in the world can boast.