often set going pit-a-pat by the sweet smiles of some mademoiselle. But at this particular place my expectations did not tally with my realisations. Instead of a smiling "damoiselle, an elderly, rather bulky old dame prepared my coffee, and when I was drinking it she asked me about my doings etc. She then proceeded to tell me how dreadful she thought the war was & how she wished it would end. For, she told me, three of her sons had gone to the trenches, and brushing aside a tear from her eyes, she said that one had been Killed in September 1914, and she pointed, half in sorrow, half in pride, to the picture on the Kitchen wall of a fine, strapping young soldier, in the prime of existence; that was what the war had cost her. And every home in France is the same.
I said 'good afternoon' to Madame with a heavy heart, despite my endeavours otherwise.