“Well,” he said, “I want to know how it happens that you—­a foreigner, and a woman—­happen to be living in what looks like exile—­all alone on the top of a hill—­in war-time?”

I looked at him a moment—­and—­well, conditions like these make people friendly with one another at once.  I was, you know, never very reticent, and in days like these even the ordinary reticences of ordinary times are swept away.  So I answered frankly, as if these men were old friends, and not the acquaintances of an hour, that, as I was, as they could see, no longer young, very tired, and yet not weary with life, but more interested than my strength allowed.  I had sought a pleasant retreat for my old age,—­not too far from the City of my Love,—­and that I had chosen this hilltop for the sake of the panorama spread out before me; that I had loved it every day more than the day before; and that exactly three months after I had sat down on this hilltop this awful war had marched to within sight of my gate, and banged its cannon and flung its deadly bombs right under my eyes.

Do you know, every mother’s son of them threw back his head—­and laughed aloud.  I was startled.  I knew that I had shown unnecessary feeling—­but I knew it too late.  I made a dash for the house, but the lieutenant blocked the way.  I could not make a scene.  I never felt so like it in my life.

“Come back, come back,” he said.  “We all apologize.  It was a shame to laugh.  But you are so vicious and so personal about it.  After all, you know, the gods were kind to you—­it did turn back—­those waves of battle.  You had better luck than Canute.”

“Besides,” said the chef-major, “you can always say that you had front row stage box.”

There was nothing to do to save my face but to laugh with them.  And they were still laughing when they tramped across the road to dinner.  I returned to the house rather mortified at having been led into such an unnecessary display of feeling, but I suppose I had been in need of some sort of an outlet.

After dinner they came back to the lawn to lie about smoking their cigarettes.  I was sitting in the arbor.  The battle had become a duel of heavy artillery, which they all found “magnificent,” these men who had been in such things.

Suddenly the chef-major leaped to his feet.

“Listen—­listen—­an aeroplane.”

We all looked up.  There it was, quite low, right over our heads.  “A Taube!” he exclaimed, and before he had got the words out of his mouth, Crick-crack-crack snapped the musketry from the field behind us—­the soldiers had seen it.  The machine began to rise.  I stood like a rock,—­my feet glued to the ground,—­while the regiment fired over my head.  But it was sheer will power that kept me steady among these men who were treating it as if it were a Fourteenth of July show.  I heard a ping.

“Touched,” said the officer as the Taube continued to rise.  Another ping.