The sky was cloudless that day. As he sat at his table the square of blue through the window and the hills topped by their windmill and the silver-blue of the river, were constantly in his eyes. Sometimes he wrote notes down fast, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, seeing nothing; other times he sat for long periods staring at the sky and at the windmill vaguely happy, playing with unexpected thoughts that came and vanished, as now and then a moth fluttered in the window to blunder about the ceiling beams, and, at last, to disappear without his knowing how. When the clock struck twelve, he found he was very hungry. For two days he had eaten nothing but bread, sausage and cheese. Finding Madame Boncour behind the bar downstairs, polishing glasses, he ordered dinner of her. She brought him a stew and a bottle of wine at once, and stood over him watching him eat it, her arms akimbo and the dimples showing in her huge red cheeks. “Monsieur eats less than any young man I ever saw,” she said. “I'm working hard,” said Andrews, flushing. “But when you work you have to eat a great deal, a great deal.” “And if the money is short?” asked Andrews with a smile. Something in the steely searching look that passed over her eyes for a minute startled him. “There are not many people here now, Monsieur, but you should see it on a market day.... Monsieur will take some dessert?” “Cheese and coffee.” “Nothing more? It's the season of strawberries.” “Nothing more, thank you.” When Madame Boncour came back with the cheese, she said: “I had Americans here once, Monsieur. A pretty time I had with them, too. They were deserters. They went away without paying, with the gendarmes after them I hope they were caught and sent to the front, those good-for-nothings.” “There are all sorts of Americans,” said Andrews in a low voice. He was angry with himself because his heart beat so. “Well, I'm going for a little walk. Au revoir, Madame.” “Monsieur is going for a little walk. Amusez-vous bien, Monsieur. Au revoir, Monsieur,” Madame Boncour's singsong tones followed him out. A little before four Andrews knocked at the front door of the Rods' house. He could hear Santo, the little black and tan, barking inside. Madame Rod opened the door for him herself. “Oh, here you are,” she said. “Come and have some tea. Did the work go well to-day?” “And Genevieve?” stammered Andrews. “She went out motoring with some friends. She left a note for you. It's on the tea-table.” He found himself talking, making questions and answers, drinking tea, putting cakes into his mouth, all through a white dead mist. Genevieve's note said: “Jean:--I'm thinking of ways and means. You must get away to a neutral country. Why couldn't you have talked it over with me first, before cutting off every chance of going back. I'll be in tomorrow at the same time. “Bien a vous. G. R.”