"Tea," he said feelingly, "and there will be china cups and thin bread-and-
butter, and real milk and come along in."
It was rather a composite restaurant. There was a glassed-in balcony with
tables and chairs; and all around there were puttees, handkerchiefs,
paper-weights, inkstands, wrist-watches and electric torches. There were
loose-leaved pocket diaries of abominable ingenuity (irresistible to
Adjutants); collars and ties to clothe the neck of man, and soap to wash it
withal. Hair lotions, safety-razors, _pâté de foie gras_, sponges and
writing-pads jostled each other on the shelves. Walking-sticks and bottles
of champagne lay in profusion on the floor. It was less of a restaurant
than an emporium, but the Doctor sat down contentedly and rang the bell;
and the War Babe threw out battle patrols to reconnoitre the position.
He passed unscathed through the barrage of sticks and diaries; evaded
skilfully the indirect fire of electric torches; reached his first
objective among the soap-boxes, and there met his fate.
"Doctor," he demanded suddenly, "what's 'savon jollymouse'?"
"Savon," the doctor began didactically, "is a preparation of fatty acids
saponified with alkali. It is principally manufactured from coker-nut oil,
although other similar, if less offensive, substances are sometimes
employed. In the English tongue it is known as 'soap,' and----"
"You idiot," said the War Babe amiably, "I know what 'savon' is. But what's
a 'jollymouse'?"
"A rodent," replied the Doctor--"a small rodent in a state of mental
exhilaration or merriment."
"Rats."
"Yes, the same definition would also apply to rats. _Jolly_ rats, that is
to say."
"You're very bright to-day, Doctor," said the War Babe, "but it doesn't
happen to be that kind of mouse at all. It's j-o-l-i, jolly; m-o-u-s-s-e
----"
"Why didn't you say that before? That's quite different. It's pronounced
moose--zholimoose."
The War Babe sniffed.
"I don't believe you know what it means any more than I do."
"Son of Mars," the Doctor answered gravely, "you are measuring my ignorance
by your own--a great mistake. As a matter of fact that word is put on the
packet simply to deceive unwary Babes. It has nothing whatever to do with
soap."
"Well, since you know so much," said the War Babe, closing with his
opponent, "what _is_ a jollymouse or whatever you call it?"
"A zholimoose, my dear," the Doctor began, "is very hard to describe and
has to be seen to be believed. A War Babe would probably not recognise one
if he saw it. To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o'-the-
wispish----"
The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner
door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real.
The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with
triumph.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a low vibrating tone, "behold the zholimoose.
Hush. It will probably come closer if you don't frighten it."
"Have you got the landing-net?" whispered James hoarsely.
"Yes. And the killing bottle. It's this War Babe I'm afraid of. He's sure
to scare it. Don't glare at her like that, War Babe. Pretend you're a
soap-box."
She hovered on the threshold. It seemed touch and go... and then the War
Babe broke the ice in his choicest French.
"Mademoiselle!"
"Messieurs!" She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all.
"Tay avec--er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay," the Doctor ground out in his
execrable lingo. "And--er--I never can remember the French for milk."
"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.
"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....
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Victim._ "CONFOUND YOUR DOG, MADAM! IT'S NEARLY BITTEN A
PIECE OUT OF MY LEG."
_Owner_ (_distressed_). "I AM TRULY SORRY, SIR. NAUGHTY LITTLE DAPHNE!
AFTER ALL MY EFFORTS TO MAKE WEDNESDAY YOUR MEATLESS DAY."]
* * * * *