Presently “the wife” comes to the door, with a smile.  She can afford to smile now, for not so long ago her guests were Uhlans.  Then begins an elaborate pantomime.  Private Tosh says “Bonjourr!” in husky tones—­last week he would have said “Hey, Bella!”—­and proceeds to wash his hands in invisible soap and water.  As a reward for his ingenuity he receives a basin of water:  sometimes the water is even warm.  Meanwhile Private Cosh, the linguist of the platoon, proffers twopence, and says:  “Doolay—­ye unnerstand?” He gets a drink of milk, which is a far, far better thing than the appalling green scum-covered water with which his less adaptable brethren are wont to refresh themselves from wayside ditches.  Thomas Atkins, however mature, is quite incorrigible in this respect.

Yes, we are getting on.  And when every man in the platoon, instead of merely some, can find a place to sleep, draw his blanket from the waggon, clean his rifle and himself, and get to his dinner within the half-hour already specified, we shall be able justly to call ourselves seasoned.

We have covered some distance this week, and we have learned one thing at least, and that is, not to be uppish about our sleeping quarters.  We have slept in chateaux, convents, farm-houses, and under the open sky.  The chateaux are usually empty.  An aged retainer, the sole inhabitant, explains that M. le Comte is at Paris; M. Armand at Arras; and M. Guy in Alsace,—­all doing their bit.  M. Victor is in hospital, with Madame and Mademoiselle in constant attendance.

So we settle down in the chateaux, and unroll our sleeping-bags upon its dusty parquet.  Occasionally we find a bed available.  Then two officers take the mattress, upon the floor, and two more take what is left of the bed.  French chateaux do not appear to differ much as a class.  They are distinguished by great elegance of design, infinite variety in furniture, and entire absence of drains.  The same rule applies to convents, except that there is no furniture.

Given fine weather, by far the most luxurious form of lodging is in the open air.  Here one may slumber at ease, fanned by the wings of cockchafers and soothed by an unseen choir of frogs.  There are drawbacks, of course.  Mr. Waddell one evening spread his ground-sheet and bedding in the grassy meadow, beside a murmuring stream.  It was an idyllic resting-place for a person of romantic or contemplative disposition.  Unfortunately it is almost impossible nowadays to keep one’s favourite haunts select.  This was evidently the opinion of the large water-rat which Waddell found sitting upon his air-pillow when he returned from supper.  Although French, the animal exhibited no disposition to fraternise, but withdrew in the most pointed fashion, taking an Abernethy biscuit with him.