I was delighted. I opened the gate, and he strolled in and sauntered
with a long, slow stride--a long-legged stride--out on to the lawn and
right down to the hedge, and looked off.

"Beautiful," he said, as he took out his field-glass, and turned up the
map case which hung at his side. "What town is that?" he asked,
pointing to the foreground.

I told him that it was Mareuil-on-the-Marne.

"How far off is it?" he questioned.

I told him that it was about two miles, and Meaux was about the same
distance beyond it.

"What town is that?" he asked, pointing to the hill.

I explained that the town on the horizon was Penchard--not really a
town, only a village; and lower down, between Penchard and Meaux, were
Neufmortier and Chauconin.

All this time he was studying his map.

"Thank you. I have it," he said. "It is a lovely country, and this is
a wonderful view of it, the best I have had."

For a few minutes he stood studying it in silence--alternatively looking
at his map and then through his glass. Then he dropped his map, put his
glasses into the case, and turned to me--and smiled. He had a winning