A step sounded in the hall, and Louise entered the dining room, clad all in white with the exception of a closely fitting yellow hat. After a moment Victorine, a girl small for her age, with a petulant satiated expression, followed. “It's a shame,” Louise observed, “that with Morice and his wife in the cottage you have to breakfast alone. I suppose all those theatrical people get up at noon.” “Not quite,” Rosalie told her from the doorway. Louise made no reply other than elevating her brows. Victorine looked at the other with an exact mirroring of her mother's disdain. “Good morning,” Morice said indistinctly, hooking the collar of his uniform. “It's a bloody nuisance,” he asserted. “Why can't they copy the English jacket?” “It is much better looking,” Louise added. “Well,” Rosalie proclaimed, “I'm glad to see Morice in any; even if it means nothing more than a desk in the Quartermaster's Department.” “That is very necessary,” August Turnbull spoke decidedly. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “I think it is bad taste to raise such insinuations.” Louise was severe. “An army,” August put in, “travels on its stomach. As Louise suggests--we must ask you not to discuss the question in your present tone.” Morice's wife half-audibly spoke into her melon, and his face reddened. “What did I understand you to say?” he demanded. “Oh, 'Swat the fly!'” Rosalie answered hardily. “Not at all!” he almost shouted. “What you said was 'Swat the Kaiser!'” “Well, swat him!” “It was evident, also, that you did not refer to the Emperor of Germany--but to me.” “You said it,” she admitted vulgarly. “If any house ever had a Hohenzollern this has.” “Shut up, Rosalie!” her husband commanded, perturbed; “you'll spoil everything.” “It might be better if she continued,” Louise Foster corrected him. “Perhaps then we'd learn something of this--this beauty.” “I got good money for my face anyhow,” Rosalie asserted. “And no cash premium went with it either. As for going on, I'll go.” She turned to August Turnbull: “I've been stalling round here for nearly a year with Morice scared to death trying to get a piece of change out of you. Now I'm through; I've worked hard for a season's pay, but this is slavery. What you want is an amalgamated lady bootblack and nautch dancer. You're a joke to a free white woman. I'm sorry for your wife. She ought to slip you a bichloride tablet. If it was worth while I'd turn you over to the authorities for breaking the food regulations.” She rose, unceremoniously shoving back her chair. “For a fact, I'm tired of watching you eat. You down as much as a company of good boys on the march. Don't get black in the face; I'd be afraid to if I were you.” August Turnbull's rage beat like a hammer at the base of his head. He, too, rose, leaning forward with his napkin crumpled in a pounding fist. “Get out of my house!” he shouted.