"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 êtes--la jolimouse," said the War Babe
slowly, choosing his words with care.

"Bien sûr," 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.

"Voilà!" 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....