She entered the open door of the little cottage and looked within; then she turned about in the most matter-of-fact way and called something to the man who drove the truck. He dismounted and began unloading cases and crates—and a cook-stove. These he carried up the bank and placed in the house. Maude shook hands with the man; he climbed on his camion again and drove away. She was alone!... She, an American girl, had been set down casually in a matter-of-course manner here within range of hostile guns, and abandoned to her own devices! She seemed not in the least excited or disturbed. It was amazing. This sort of thing might have been happening to her every day or so for years, and yet Kendall knew she had never, probably, spent a night alone in a house before in her life.... And here she was more than alone in a house. There was not another woman within miles.... He saw her attempting to fasten a sign to the wall beside the door, and, failing, turn and look about her for the first time.... Seventy-fives were being discharged every few minutes from points not a quarter of a mile away from her. He saw that she was gazing toward the sound.... He shook his head, for the thing was beyond his comprehension. Did American girls do this sort of thing? Was this expected of them? Were they all capable of such adaptations of themselves, or was Maude Knox a remarkable exception? He wondered.... There was nothing more to be seen. Maude had gone inside, and Kendall stepped from his car and walked up to her door, on whose threshold he paused, not speaking, and peered inside. She was standing in the middle of a rubbish-littered room, looking about her, not with bewilderment or with uncertainty, but calculatingly. She seemed the embodiment of capability.... She nodded her head as much as to say, “This will do nicely,” and reached for a broom that was among the boxes that had accompanied her. “Good morning,” said Kendall. She turned and looked at him, smiling even before she recognized him, and then exclaimed, “Kendall Ware, of all people!” “Of all people, indeed! How about yourself? I presume you are a natural and normal part of the scenery.” She nodded. “Of course. This is what I came to France to do.” “To—to be set down on a pile of filth like this”—his arm swept the room—“alone—in the middle of an army—within a couple of miles of No Man’s Land?” “Of course.... Why not?” “Aren’t you—afraid?” She was actually surprised; there was no pretense about it. “Of what?” she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll bet you never slept alone in a house before in your life.” “Never.” “You wouldn’t do it at home.” “I suppose not.” He waggled his head. “You’d have been afraid to stay alone in a house in a civilized town.... Now, wouldn’t you?” “I—I guess I would. Yes, I would.”