“Aye, Suzanne, it’s that of the cannon thundering far away, but Mademoiselle Julie and Mr. Scott have forgotten all about it, and it would be a pity to recall them to it.”

Suzanne nodded.  For a little space she, too, was compelled to relax.  The salad now being complete she served it herself, and as she did so she relaxed still further, murmuring that they were just boy and girl together, but that they were very handsome.  She had lifted two of the candles and put them upon the table, their light touching Julie’s hair of deep gold with a ruddy tint and heightening the brilliant color of her cheeks.  The heavy curtains before the window near them had been looped back a little, and the glass revealed the snow pouring down like a cataract, but they did not see it.

“It’s the best dinner I ever ate,” said John.

“Now you are finding what capable people Antoine and Suzanne are,” said Julie.

“I give them all the credit due them,” said John, as he made mental reservations.

“They’re wonderfully capable, but it will always be Antoine’s bitter regret that he does not serve in this war.  If he could, he would be glad to represent himself fifteen years younger than he really is.”

“His chance will come.  Again I say to myself, Miss Julie, what luck I had in arriving at Chastel!”

“And it was lucky for us, too.  We need your courage and resource, Mr. John.  I know that Philip cannot come today or tonight and perhaps not tomorrow.”

“In that event, what plans have you, Miss Julie?”

“To remain in Chastel.  We have an excellent hotel here at our service, and as we’re behind the French army we’re in perfect safety.”

John opened his lips to speak, but changed his intention and did not say what was in his thought.  He said instead: 

“Antoine is looking unusually important.  He is going to serve us wine.  He has mineral water, too.  Will you take a little of it with your wine?  It’s a white wine, and the water improves it for me.”

“Yes, Mr. John, I’ll take mine the same way.”

Any dinner, although it may have a flavor which the food and drink themselves, no matter how good, cannot give, must draw to an end, and when the dessert had been served and eaten John looped back the heavy curtain still further and looked out at the white cataract.

“The snowfall will certainly continue the rest of the day,” he said, “and perhaps all through the night.  Suppose we go to the smoking-room.  Antoine and Suzanne must eat also.  It’s their hour now.”

“That is true, Mr. John.  The smoking-room is a good place, but I’m afraid that you have no cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke, but we can talk there, of your brother Philip, of your mother, safe now, of Paris, delivered as if by a miracle from the German menace, and of other good events that have happened.”

He held open the door of the dining-room and when she went out he followed her, leaving Picard and Suzanne to their hour.