“Doctor,” he demanded suddenly, “what’s ’savon jollymouse’?”

“Savon,” the doctor began didactically, “is a preparation of fatty acids saponified with alkali.  It is principally manufactured from coker-nut oil, although other similar, if less offensive, substances are sometimes employed.  In the English tongue it is known as ‘soap,’ and——­”

“You idiot,” said the War Babe amiably, “I know what ‘savon’ is.  But what’s a ’jollymouse’?”

“A rodent,” replied the Doctor—­“a small rodent in a state of mental exhilaration or merriment.”

“Rats.”

“Yes, the same definition would also apply to rats. Jolly rats, that is to say.”

“You’re very bright to-day, Doctor,” said the War Babe, “but it doesn’t happen to be that kind of mouse at all.  It’s j-o-l-i, jolly; m-o-u-s-s-e ——­”

“Why didn’t you say that before?  That’s quite different.  It’s pronounced moose—­zholimoose.”

The War Babe sniffed.

“I don’t believe you know what it means any more than I do.”

“Son of Mars,” the Doctor answered gravely, “you are measuring my ignorance by your own—­a great mistake.  As a matter of fact that word is put on the packet simply to deceive unwary Babes.  It has nothing whatever to do with soap.”

“Well, since you know so much,” said the War Babe, closing with his opponent, “what is a jollymouse or whatever you call it?”

“A zholimoose, my dear,” the Doctor began, “is very hard to describe and has to be seen to be believed.  A War Babe would probably not recognise one if he saw it.  To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o’-the-wispish——­”

The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real.  The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with triumph.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a low vibrating tone, “behold the zholimoose.  Hush.  It will probably come closer if you don’t frighten it.”

“Have you got the landing-net?” whispered James hoarsely.

“Yes.  And the killing bottle.  It’s this War Babe I’m afraid of.  He’s sure to scare it.  Don’t glare at her like that, War Babe.  Pretend you’re a soap-box.”

She hovered on the threshold.  It seemed touch and go... and then the War Babe broke the ice in his choicest French.

“Mademoiselle!”

“Messieurs!” She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all.

“Tay avec—­er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay,” the Doctor ground out in his execrable lingo.  “And—­er—­I never can remember the French for milk.”

“Lait?” I suggested.

“That’s it.  Now, Mademoiselle-lay.  But not canned stuff.  Vray lay.”

Her eyes grew wider and wider at this strange jargon.

“Comment, M’sieur?”

“Vray lay.”

“I suppose you mean lait an naturel,” growled James.