“Perhaps,” said Makand Singh, “you will have coffee?”

I was glad to accept, and the young officer, who had followed, accepted also.  We sat down while the kettle was placed on the stove and the fire replenished.  I glanced at the Indian major’s tall figure.  Even sitting, he was majestic.  When he took the cape off he was discovered clothed in the khaki uniform of his rank in the British Army.  Except for the olive colour of his skin, his turban, and the fact that his beard—­the soft beard of one who has never shaved—­was drawn up into a black net so that it formed a perfect crescent around the angle of his jaw, he might have been a gallant and interested English officer.

For the situation assuredly interested him.  His eyes were alert and keen.  When he smiled he showed rows of beautiful teeth, small and white.  And although his face in repose was grave, he smiled often.  He superintended the making of the coffee by the peasant woman and instructed her to prepare the table.

She obeyed pleasantly.  Indeed, it was odd to see that between this elderly Frenchwoman and her strange guests—­people of whose existence on the earth I dare say she had never heard until this war—­there was the utmost good will.  Perhaps the Indians are neater than other troops.  Certainly personal cleanliness is a part of their religion.  Anyhow, whatever the reason, I saw no evidence of sulkiness toward the Indians, although I have seen surly glances directed toward many of the billeted troops of other nationalities.

Conversation was rather difficult.  We had no common ground to meet on, and the ordinary currency of polite society seemed inadequate, out of place.

“The weather must be terrible after India,” I ventured.

“We do not mind the cold.  We come from the north of India, where it is often cold.  But the mud is bad.  We cannot use our horses.”

“You are a cavalry regiment?” I asked, out of my abysmal ignorance.

“We are Lancers.  Yes.  And horses are not useful in this sort of fighting.”

From a room beyond there was a movement, followed by the entrance of a young Frenchman in a British uniform.  Makand Singh presented him and he joined the circle that waited for coffee.

The newcomer presented an enigma—­a Frenchman in a British uniform quartered with the Indian troops!  It developed that he was a pupil from the Sorbonne, in Paris, and was an interpreter.  Everywhere afterward I found these interpreters with the British Army—­Frenchmen who for various reasons are disqualified from entering the French Army in active service and who are anxious to do what they can.  They wear the British uniform, with the exception that instead of the stiff crown of the British cap theirs is soft, They are attached to every battalion, for Tommy Atkins is in a strange land these days, a land that knows no more English than he knows French,