"Militarism," William assented, "is always silly." And he, in his turn, enlarged on his favourite text, the impossibility of international warfare, owing to the ever-growing solidarity of the European working-classes—his little homily being punctuated here and there by a further crackle from below. When he had enlarged sufficiently and Griselda had duly agreed, he returned as it were to private life and suggested: "If you’re feeling more rested, shall we make a start? It’s cooler under the trees." They started, accordingly, on their homeward way, which was even longer than the route they had taken in the morning: one little wood path was very like another and they managed to take a wrong turning, bear too much to the right and make a considerable detour. When the cottage came in sight they were both thirsty, and secretly relieved that their last excursion was over. "We’ll put on the spirit-lamp and have some tea," Griselda announced as they pushed open the door. "Oh dear! it’s lovely to think we shall be in London so soon. How I would love a strawberry ice! Where’s the match-box?" It was not until the match-box was found and the spirit-lamp kindled that William discovered on the kitchen table a mystery in the shape of a document. It was an unimposing looking document, not over clean, indicted in pencil on the reverse of the half-sheet of paper on which William that morning had written his announcement of "_Sorti_." Like William’s announcement, the communication was in French, of a kind—presumably uneducated French if one judged by the writing; and like William the author of the communication (in all likelihood Madame Peys) had placed it in the centre of the table and crowned it with a saucer before leaving. "I suppose it must be for us," William remarked doubtfully. "I can’t make out a word of it—can you?" "Of course not," Griselda returned with a spice of irritation—she was tired and her boots hurt her. "I couldn’t read that ridiculous writing if it was English. It’s that silly old woman, Madame Peys, I suppose; but what is the good of her writing us letters when she knows we can’t read them?" "Perhaps," William suggested, "it’s to say she won’t be able to cook our supper to-night?" "Very likely," his wife agreed, the spice of irritation still more pronounced. "If that’s it, we shall have to do with eggs—we used up the cold meat for sandwiches at lunch, and there’s nothing else in the house. We’d better go round to the farm when we’ve had our tea and find out what she wants—stupid old thing! Whether she comes here or not, we must see her to get the bill and order the boy for the morning. But I don’t mean to move another step till I’ve had my tea." *CHAPTER V*