The boys looked at each other, weighing this event in the light of their experience with American domestics. It was so surprising as to be upsetting. “Seventy francs a month—including shines,” said Bert. “And seventy francs is fourteen dollars.” “And my mother pays her cook twelve a week—and hires another girl to wait on the cook! ... Come to France to solve the domestic-servant problem! ... I wonder if she bathes us.” They hurried into their clothes and went to the dining-room, where a great pitcher of chocolate stood in the center of the table, flanked by a pot of jam and a basket of rolls. On each plate was a bowl—not a cup. Arlette entered and stood with her stomach against the table’s edge, whence she looked first at the food and then at her employers. She pointed accusingly at the confiture and said, “_Abricot!_” “Apricot, eh? _Très-bien._” “_Mais non, messieurs.... Mais non._ It is not well.... Oh, the price—it is terrific, it is wicked. Of a surety, you are robbed. We shall have no more. _Messieurs les officiers_ shall not so be robbed. I shall see well to it. But I was directed to procure confiture!” She crossed her pudgy hands on her ample stomach and rolled her eyes to heaven, calling upon Divinity to witness that apricot jam at four francs a jar was a thing to excite horror in any well-regulated and economical mind. Kendall strove to comfort her, but it was impossible. No quantity of assurances that it was _très-bien_ could remove her mind from the enormity of the cost of that delicacy, and she went out shaking her head and muttering and sniffling a trifle. In a moment she re-entered to ask what was desired for dinner. It was the first and the last time she made such an inquiry. In the future she made suggestions herself, but never did she ask outright what these strange young savages would have to eat. “_Poulet_,” said Bert. “Chicken.” Arlette rested her hands on her hips and stared at him aghast. She repeated the word after him as if unwilling to believe such a thing had been mentioned in her presence. “_Poulet? ... Poulet? ... Non, non, non._ But no. It is too dear. The cost, consider the cost! Veal, perhaps, but never pullet.” “Young ladies are coming and we wish a suitable dinner,” said Bert. “But pullet—oh no. There shall be a suitable dinner, but there shall not be pullet. It is a thing unthinkable—at the price. Before the war—yes, but now! _Mon Dieu!_ do the American officers consider what price is demanded for pullet?” The American officers did not, nor did Arlette enlighten them, but she continued stubbornly to refuse to procure it. Ken shrugged his shoulders. “It looks as if we were going to be henpecked,” he said, ruefully. Bert laughed. “Anyhow we get no chicken. I wonder if we can have a salad?” Yes, a salad was thinkable, and even string-beans or cauliflower or peas—but pullet! Arlette’s mind refused to be diverted from pullet.