"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.

"Du lait frais," I hazarded.

"Ah. Comprends. C'est triste. Pas de lait frais. Les hôpitaux 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.

"Où est la jollymouse--moose, I mean?"

She looked from one to another of us in perplexity.