“Yea, _boy_!” said a loud voice, just as Captain Ware was endeavoring to give his order to one of the two pretty French girls who were the waitresses. It was his first sight of the Parisienne, and it had rather surprised him. They did not wear short skirts and high-heeled slippers, with more than enough black-stockinged ankle to regard. They had not saucy eyes and _rétroussé_ noses, nor did they whisk about flirtatiously. They were pretty, indeed they were charming, but they were quiet, even subdued, and they looked _nice_. That was a good American word he could apply to them. He liked their looks, even if they failed to come up to his ideas of what a French waitress should be. He looked up from the pad on which he had been checking off the _petit déjeuner_, to see facing him across the table, in a captain’s uniform and Sam Brown belt which made him almost unrecognizable, a man with whom he had been more than friendly through four years in Ann Arbor. “Bert Stanley!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and extending his hand. “They all come here,” said Stanley to himself, “all of them—if you just wait long enough.... When did you land?” “Day before yesterday.” “And got to Paris so soon? How did you work that?” “Ordered.... What are you doing here?” “Making marks on pieces of paper. That’s what I got for knowing anything about architectural engineering. I’m in the Signal Corps and I’m drawing plans for aeroplane-sheds.... What are you?” He looked down at Kendall’s collar markings. “Intelligence! I’m one of the fellows who find out everything about everything in the world and tell it to the army for its good.” “Stationed here?” “Don’t know. Report this morning.” “Fix it, son, fix it.... It’s a great _guerre_, and this battle of Paris—” “_Beurre, monsieur?_” asked the waitress. “Eh? What’s that?” “She wants to know,” explained Stanley, with exaggerated patience, “if you want butter. It’s extra.” Kendall signified his desire for butter. “I’ve just been out looking at the town,” he said. “The fellows that built it knew what they were doing, didn’t they?” “They knew how to do a lot of things. Staying here, of course.” “Didn’t know where else to go. You, too?” “Have been a month, but if I’m going to live here for the duration, and it looks as if I were, I’d like to get somebody and take a little apartment somewhere.... Over in the Quartier Latin or up on one of the streets off the Étoile. Have some comfort. Live cheaper, too. Get a cook for sixty or seventy francs, and be regular people.... Say, if you’re set down in Paris, come on in with me.” “Sounds reasonable,” said Kendall, tentatively. “Haven’t the least idea what they’ll do with me, though.” “Well, you run up and see, and, whatever happens, meet me here at half past six and I’ll take you to a regular place to eat, and then we’ll go out and look at the sights.” “You’re on,” said Kendall, “bigger than a house.”