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Formez vos bataillons!" Around the room they marched singing, "Marchons! Marchons!" with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and placed in Odile's lap.
"He's been out garroting, look at his noose!" laughed Guernalec. "So now we know where you get your cash!" added West; "vive le coup du Pere Francois!" Trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at Sylvia's pale face. "I didn't mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the bombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?"
Thorne and Guernalec, who had heard, broke in and offered assistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan. "All right," said Trent rapidly, "no more now, but meet me at Ambulance headquarters to-morrow morning at eight." Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in English, now demanded to know what they were talking about.
It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands with Trent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it would be nothing. When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoke to her cordially and thanked her for her aid. "Anything I can do, Jack?" inquired West, lingering, and then hurried downstairs to catch up with the rest.
She smiled and murmured, "Oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his and tightened convulsively. "To the table!" shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop. "Take it easy," observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are not the host, you know." Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne's arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile's arm through his.
"You all know," he began, "that to-day is my wife's nineteenth birthday " Fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved his glass in circles about his head to the terror of Odile and Colette, his neighbours, and Thorne, West and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm of applause which the toast of Sylvia had provoked, subsided.
Dried prunes White bread, Currant Jelly, Tea Cafe, Liqueurs, Pipes and Cigarettes. Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup. "Isn't it delicious?" sighed Odile. Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture. "Not at all like horse, and I don't care what they say, horse doesn't taste like beef," whispered Colette to West.
"It seems," he said to Fallowby, "that a fellow cannot discuss the beauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly suspected." Colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to Sylvia, murmured, "They are horridly untruthful, these men." "I believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages," said Marie Guernalec saucily; "Sylvia, don't trust Monsieur Trent."
Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile slipped her arm around her and supported her to a chair, saying calmly, "Sylvia has fainted, it's the hot room, bring some water." Trent brought it at once. Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by Marie Guernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom.
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