paused a second, listening to the hum of voices within, then pushed at
the door and entered.

Instantly there was a hush of astonishment as seventy or eighty
officers, eating at a long trestle table, sharply turned their heads
towards her, their forks poised for a second, their hands still. Then,
with a quick recovery, all was as before, and the stream of talk
flowed on.

The first section of the table was reserved for strangers passing
through Verdun, and here sat a party of young Russian officers in light
blouse-tunics, an American or two, and a few French officers. At the
next section sat the officers of the _citadelle_, a passing general, and
at the left hand of the commandant, Monsieur Dellahousse and the mild
lieutenant.

Overhead the stone roof of the tunnel was arched with flags, and
orderlies hurried up and down serving the diners.

Fanny, halfway up the long table, wavered in doubt. Where, after all,
was she supposed to sit? At the top section, as a guest--or, as a
driver, among the whispering Russians at the "stranger" section? Her
anxiety showed in her face as she glanced forwards and backwards and an
orderly hurried towards her. "Par ici, mademoiselle, par ici!" and she
followed him towards the head of the table. Her doubts dissolved as she
saw the gap left for her by the friendly arm of the lieutenant, and,
arrived at the long wooden bench upon which they sat, she bowed to the
commandant, and lifting one leg beneath her skirt as a hen does beneath
its feathers, she straddled the difficult bench and dropped
into position.