“Du lait frais,” I hazarded.

“Ah.  Comprends.  C’est triste.  Pas de lait frais.  Les hopitaux prennent tout.”

“No milk?” wailed the Doctor.  He looked fixedly at the table and one saw from the movement of his lips that he was mustering his forces for another plunge into the language.  Meanwhile the War Babe, whose eyes had not left the girl’s face, ventured again on the thin ice of speech.

“Mademoiselle,” he began hesitatingly.

“Oui, M’sieur.”  She turned to him, the picture of rapt attention.

“Ou est la jollymouse—­moose, I mean?”

She looked from one to another of us in perplexity.

“Qu’est ce qu’il veut dire?” she asked.

“Il veut voir la jolimousse,” we explained, and the War Babe held out the soap-box, pointing with expressive pantomime to the words on it.  Her eyes twinkled appreciatively.

“Nous—­nous supposerons que—­vous etes—­la jolimouse,” said the War Babe slowly, choosing his words with care.

“Bien sur,” James added affirmatively.

“Moi?” She rippled with laughter.  “Oh non.  Attendez, Messieurs.  Ouait one mineet.”  She flitted through the door like some beautiful butterfly, and in a moment returned with the smallest, softest, warmest lump of blue-grey fur nestling against her.  It was a tiny blue Persian kitten.

“Voila!” she said, caressing it tenderly, “la jolimousse.”  She handed it gravely to the War Babe, who received it with almost reverend care.

It seems perhaps a little worldly to return to the subject of tea, but doctors are worldly creatures.  However, at this point the doom of the gods descended, for there was no tea to be obtained, only coffee; no bread-and-butter, only little hard biscuits; and the cups, though certainly china, were but little larger than liqueur-glasses.  But one of us at least was impervious to disappointments.  The War Babe sat silently, with the kitten in his lap, like a seer of visions, until, just as we were about to leave, an impulse suddenly galvanized him.  “I’ll pay,” he said, and marched into the inner room....

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Victim. “CONFOUND YOUR DOG, MADAM!  IT’S NEARLY BITTEN A PIECE OUT OF MY LEG.”

Owner (distressed).  “I AM TRULY SORRY, SIR.  NAUGHTY LITTLE DAPHNE!  AFTER ALL MY EFFORTS TO MAKE WEDNESDAY YOUR MEATLESS DAY.”]

* * * * *

DOMESTIC STRATEGY.

Mr. Meanly. My dear, I see that The People’s Adviser is inviting its readers to send details of their individual food reforms for publication. Pour encourager les autres. Just tell me what our rules are.

Mrs. Meanly. Certainly, dear.  We have meat only on two days a week; potatoes only on two days a week (and so on).

Mr. Meanly. Good.  I will write a letter.  And then the day after it appears in print you might send out invitations to dinner.  There are a lot of arrears to make up and we’ll clear them off now.  Say a series of three parties.