Fuselli's knees were weak under him. He felt like shouting and dancing with joy. He was glad it was dark so that no one could see how excited he was. “Sergeant, dismiss the company,” said the lieutenant bringing his voice back to its military tone. “Companee dis-missed!” said out the sergeant jovially. In groups, talking with crisp voices, cheered by the occurrence of events, the company straggled across the great stretch of mud puddles towards the mess shack. IV Yvonne tossed the omelette in the air. It landed sizzling in the pan again, and she came forward into the light, holding the frying pan before her. Behind her was the dark stove and above it a row of copper kettles that gleamed through the bluish obscurity. She flicked the omelette out of the pan into the white dish that stood in the middle of the table, full in the yellow lamplight. “Tiens,” she said, brushing a few stray hairs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You're some cook,” said Fuselli getting to his feet. He had been sprawling on a chair in the other end of the kitchen, watching Yvonne's slender body in tight black dress and blue apron move in and out of the area of light as she got dinner ready. A smell of burnt butter with a faint tang of pepper in it, filled the kitchen, making his mouth water. “This is the real stuff,” he was saying to himself,--“like home.” He stood with his hands deep in his pockets and his head thrown back, watching her cut the bread, holding the big loaf to her chest and pulling the knife towards her, she brushed some crumbs off her dress with a thin white hand. “You're my girl, Yvonne; ain't yer?” Fuselli put his arms round her. “Sale bete,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. There was a brisk step outside and another girl came into the kitchen, a thin yellow-faced girl with a sharp nose and long teeth. “Ma cousine.... Mon 'tit americain.” They both laughed. Fuselli blushed as he shook the girl's hand. “Il est beau, hein?” said Yvonne gruffly. “Mais, ma petite, il est charmant, vot' americain!” They laughed again. Fuselli who did not understand laughed too, thinking to himself, “They'll let the dinner get cold if they don't sit down soon.” “Get maman, Dan,” said Yvonne. Fuselli went into the shop through the room with the long oak table. In the dim light that came from the kitchen he saw the old woman's white bonnet. Her face was in shadow but there was a faint gleam of light in her small beady eyes. “Supper, ma'am,” he shouted. Grumbling in her creaky little voice, the old woman followed him back into the kitchen. Steam, gilded by the lamplight, rose in pillars to the ceiling from the big tureen of soup.