slamming the door on the world.

Yesterday was New Year's Day. Imagine my surprise when, on visiting
the horses at mid-day, Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose leaned over
the half-door of her dwelling and waved her hand to me. "_Ah, ha,
Monsieur le Lieutenant_", she crowed, "many felicitations on this
most auspicious day! _Bon jour, belle année_!"

I was so staggered I treated her to my _perfecto superfino_, my very
best salute (usually reserved for Generals and Field Cashiers). "The
same to you, Madame, and many of 'em. _Vive la France!_"

Madame bowed and smiled with all her features. "_Vive l'Angleterre_!"
What a lot of weather we were having, weren't we? and what a glorious
victory it had been, hadn't it?--mainly due to the dear soldiers, she
felt sure. She hoped I found myself enjoying robust health.

I replied that I was in the pink myself and trusted she was the same.

Never pinker in her life, she said; everything was perfectly lovely.
She beckoned me nearer. She had a small favour to ask. At this season
of peace and goodwill would the so amiable Lieutenant deign to enter
her modest abode and take a little glass of _vin blanc_ with her?

The "amiable Lieutenant" would be enchanted.

She swung the door open and bowed me in. The glasses were already
filled and waiting on the table--a big one for me, a little one for
her.