“I wonder what the Marquise de Chilquichose will think of it all when she returns to her ancestral home,” mused the Staff Captain.

“If anything,” maintained the invincible Box, “we have improved it for her.  For example, she can now light the chandelier without standing on a chair—­without getting up from table, in fact!  However, to resume.  The fireplace, you will observe, has not been touched.  I have left a sort of well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff I found in Mademoiselle’s room.  At least,” added Box coyly, “I think it must have been Mademoiselle’s room!  You can sit in the well every evening after supper.  The walls of this room”—­prodding the same—­“are lined with sandbags, covered with tapestry.  Pretty artistic—­what?”

“Extremely,” agreed the Staff Captain.  “You will excuse my raising the point, I know, but can the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?”

“Against everything but a direct hit.  I wouldn’t advise you to sleep on this floor much, but you could have your meals here all right.  Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy stuff, you can pop down into the basement and have your dessert in bed.  You’ll be absolutely safe there.  In fact, the more the house tumbles down the safer you will be.  It will only make your protection shell thicker.  So if you hear heavy thuds overhead, don’t be alarmed!”

“I won’t,” promised the Staff Captain.  “I shall lie in bed, drinking a nice hot cup of tea, and wondering whether the last crash was the kitchen chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming down another storey.  Now show me my room.”

“We have had to put you in the larder,” explained Box apologetically, as he steered his guest through a forest of struts with an electric torch.  “At least, I think it’s the larder:  it has a sort of meaty smell.  The General is in the dairy—­a lovely little suite, with white tiles.  The Brigade Major has the scullery:  it has a sink, so is practically as good as a flat in Park Place.  I have run up cubicles for the others in the kitchen.  Here is your little cot.  It is only six feet by four, but you can dress in the garden.”

“It’s a sweet little nest, dear!” replied the Staff Captain, quite hypnotised by this time.  “I’ll just get my maid to put me into something loose, and then I’ll run along to your room, and we’ll have a nice cosy gossip together before dinner!”

* * * * *

In due course we removed our effects from the tottering and rat-ridden dug-outs in which we had taken sanctuary during the shelling, and prepared to settle down for the winter in our new quarters.

“We might be very much worse off!” we observed the first evening, listening to the comfortably muffled sounds of shells overhead.

And we were right.  Three days later we received an intimation from the Practical Joke Department that we were to evacuate our present sector of trenches (including Hush Hall) forthwith, and occupy another part of the line.