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When Gwendolyn went to her room to change her dress the chaperon led me through a maze of corridors to one of the servant's rooms. There a frightened young man who was pretending not to mind the storm was told to lend me some clothes. The young man asked no questions. I volunteered no information.

When I had changed, the chaperon, who had waited for me somewhere in the neighborhood, reappeared, and conducted me to Gwendolyn's boudoir. I was thrilled. My heart beat faster than was its wont, and I felt a strange elation, an inexplicable exhilaration, which gave a touch of unreality to all I saw, heard, did, and said. From that moment I understood the phrase, "Walking on air," which I had encountered often in romantic literature and had thought rather silly or at least over-fanciful. The boudoir was indescribably beautiful. It seemed somehow to be permeated with Gwendolyn's personality. Every chair was comfortable, the colors were harmonious, the lights soft, low, restful.

Yes, it was Gwendolyn, but a new Gwendolyn, a Gwendolyn in a fascinating negligée, intimate, appealing, entrancingly feminine, and with a soupçon of mystery about her.

I thought myself speechless, but suddenly I became aware of my voice saying, "Your boudoir, how wonderful!" and in some vague way I knew it was not the first time that I had said it. Gwendolyn was laughing, but not so much at me as with me.

"What's the matter, Jackie?"

"You 're-you 're so different-here," I stammered.

"That 's rather a questionable compliment."

"Not at all. I knew the first time that I saw you that you would be wonderful in a thousand different ways, but how could I tell just what the wonders would be? Now I have been vouchsafed acquaintance with yet another wonder."

"It is n't I." She laughed softly again. "It's the lighting, Jackie dear. I'm glad you like my boudoir," she added pensively. "It 's the only com

I wanted to stay in the boudoir, but I knew that if I did, I would surely make love to Gwendolyn. And then, too, I was curious to see the mansion.

Gwendolyn read my thoughts, I think, for she said with an enigmatic smile:

"We can be cozy when we come back. It won't take long."

And with that she led the way. I followed, and behind us trailed the chaperon. Did n't the poor woman ever get tired of following Gwendolyn about, I wondered.

"First we 'll visit mama's apartment, very gorgeous, Louis Quatorze. After you see it and realize that mama lives in it you'll understand her better."

"It's a room in a museum," I gasped as we entered. "She does n't sleep in that bed, does she?"

"Yes. Does n't this make mama clear to you, Jackie?"

"No. It only makes you more inexplicable than ever," I replied.

"This is mother's boudoir," announced Gwendolyn as we entered a slightly smaller room done in the same stupendous manner. "This door leads to papa's sanctum sanctorum."

Never was contrast more abysmal. Papa's den was utterly English; heavy, dark mahogany, rich, eternal. There were books; the man actually read! And everywhere were framed engravings of notable coats of arms.

"Father's hobby is heraldry," said Gwendolyn.

A door was open into an adjoining

room.

"That 's his bedroom." She pointed through the door.

I walked in. I had hardly glanced about when the chaperon emitted a noise which was the result of a groan turning into a squeak. I turned. Gwendolyn turned. The chaperon was white and trembling visibly. In the study

from which we had just come stood the cause of her agitation, the baron!

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" the chaperon repeated helplessly.

Now we were in for it!

"Quick!" said Gwendolyn, and running past me she seized one of my hands and dragged me toward the door at the opposite end of the room.

As we crossed the bedroom I remember thinking that this would be one charge that the baron would press and one arrest that he would see through to the end. I tripped over a rug.

"That you, Jenkins?" the baron called out.

We reached the door; Gwendolyn pushed me ahead of her. But it was too late; the baron was in the room.

"Fräulein, what are you doing in here?" he asked. "Gwendolyn my dear -who's that?" "That" meant me. My mouth opened and closed. Not a sound emerged. But it did not matter. The baron went on talking. "How 's your headache, my dear? Much better, of course. Extraordinary headaches you have lately. They come and go with precision. Where 's Jenkins?"

He paused. The jig was up, I told myself; he suspected Gwendolyn. had come home on purpose.

He

I caught sight of the chaperon. She was petrified, like a little stone image of some pagan god. Her face was ashen gray. I looked at Gwendolyn. She was quite composed and smiled reassuringly. "Khat-choo!"

I almost jumped out of my skin. The baron was sneezing violently.

"Got caught in the beastly storm," he said as soon as he had stopped sneezing. "Soaking wet. Must take a hot bath or I'll die of cold. Silly way to die, that." Suddenly he looked at me and took a step toward me. "That face, that face!"

Instinctively my hands went up to hide the offending physiognomy.

"What's the matter with it, Papa?" "Familiar, damned familiar! Where 's Jenkins?"

Gwendolyn ignored his question. "Naturally his face is familiar. You 've seen him before."

"His clothes look like Jenkins, but his face does n't," said the baron.

"I looked at myself askance, and for the first time realized that I had on a valet's outfit, and was therefore reasonably safe unless the baron remembered

me.

"Jenkins has left," Gwendolyn was saying. "This I presume is Smith the new man you engaged. I came in to look for a book, and found him here." The baron looked at me sharply. "I engaged him?"

"Why, yes, Father; yesterday."

"Yesterday! Yesterday! Beastly bore; can't remember. Face is familiar." Another violent fit of sneezing gave a new direction to his discourse. "Daughter, Fräulein, get out! Manwhatever your name is—”

"Smith, sir," I interposed. "Your Lordship," whispered Gwendolyn.

"No, no; not Smith," continued the baron. "Draw tub, lay out pajamas, Good night, Gwendo

take off shoes.

lyn."

The poor little chaperon fairly fled from the room, squeezing past Gwendolyn, who had turned in the doorway.

Gwendolyn smiled at me with her eyes and said:

"Good night, dear."

Papa thought of course that these bounties were meant for him, and repeated vaguely:

"Good night, good night."

I

I

He sat down, and I prepared to remove his shoes. The door closed. was alone with Baron Wigleigh. heard Gwendolyn laughing as she went down the corridor. I was far from laughing. What I did not know about the art of being a valet would have made an interesting university course.

"So somebody called Smith begat you, and now you have to go through life with a name that has become the symbol of a class. Too bad!" said the baron as I removed his right shoe.

I wondered if menials thank barons for sympathy.

"I sha'n't call you Smith." "What would your lordship like to call me?" I asked in my best valet manner as I removed his left shoe.

"Yes, your Lordship."

"Are you just agreeing or do you really think so?"

"I really think so, your Lordship." "You think! How extraordinary!" After a little rummaging in drawers I found his pajamas. I placed them on the bed. In a closet I discovered some slippers. Thank Heaven that barons did not differ from most mortals when it came to these matters! I put the slippers on his feet, then I went to the bath-room, a vast place in which the "tub" was a small swimming-pool sunk below the level of the room. There was a shower also, and along the walls were various gymnastic instruments.

"I like my tub at ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit," said the baron.

Fastened to the side of the lake he called a tub was a thermometer. Water flowed into this pool and drained out continuously, so that to keep the water at a temperature of ninety-eight was simply a matter of regulating the proportion of hot to cold water in the inflow. This I accomplished with little difficulty.

Presently the baron entered. He removed his bath-robe, which he must have found for himself, since I had completely forgotten the existence of such a thing, and stepped into the pool. He swam about, in some way contriving to keep his monocled eye dry.

I thought I ought to leave; but he seemed to expect me to stay, so I remained. I caught myself thinking: "All naked men look alike. What makes a baron?" Of course there was that glass eye. How the dickens did he manage to keep it in while he swam? I wanted to ask him, but a fortunate sense of discretion restrained me.

His head bobbed up.

"You may fix me a hot toddy," he said.

"Yes, sir-your Lordship."

What the deuce was a hot toddy? I tried to remember, but this must be one alcoholic beverage which I had missed.

"Where will I find it, your lordship?" "You can't find it," he replied and began splashing about.

I thought this over. Amused, he looked at me.

"It does n't exist until you create it." "I meant where would I find the ingredients, your Lordship."

"You should always say what you mean. You will find everything you require except hot water in the cellarette in my study. And over there"-he pointed to the wash-stand-"is a tap marked 'hot drinking-water.' Just a dash of lemon. I don't like it too sour."

Well, at any rate, I had discovered that the thing called "toddy" was made with hot water and had a dash of lemon in it.

I went into the study. It took me a little time to discover that a curious, cabinet-like piece of furniture opened up and contained many bottles. I looked them over. There were a lot of those things called cordials, port, sherry,

of granulated sugar. Anything with a dash of lemon in it must have a dash of sugar, too. Besides, had not the baron said, "not too sour"? I hurriedly dumped a spoonful of sugar into the glass. I returned to my perusal of the labels. Words echoed in my mind. "Father's hobby is heraldry," Gwendolyn had remarked. "Heraldry!" My poor brain repeated it. The bottle marked "Scotch" had more coat of arms on it than any other. I seized it quickly before I had time to weaken, and half filled my tumbler with its contents. I stirred the sugar and added the dash of lemon. Then I marched off to get the hot water.

As I passed through the bedroom the baron, now attired in pink pajamas, was clambering into bed. He looked at the glass in my hand.

"Is n't that rather a stiff dose?" he asked.

I had not the remotest idea what he meant. So I compromised.

"Does your lordship think so?" I asked.

"Well, perhaps to cure a cold-" He nodded his head. "If I become loquacious in my sleep, it really won't matter." He waved his hand at me.

I continued into the bath-room, added the hot water, and returned. I handed the tumbler to the baron, and did n't know whether to run for my life or await the results of my concoction. He sipped it, and then looked at me.

"Extraordinary!" he murmured.

I waited, certain that death-sentence was about to be passed on the new valet. "You made it with Scotch instead of rye!"

I swallowed hard.

"Yes, your Lordship." I could think of no adequate defense.

"Ninety-nine persons out of one hundred would have made it with rye. I

prefer Scotch. Thank you-Watson." "Is that to be my name, your Lordship?" I inquired, treating the matter of the Scotch with outward indifference, but inwardly blessing my luck.

"Yes. 'Watson' is a person who interprets his master's wishes and appreciates his good taste. Good night, Watson. I shall go right to sleep. You may open all the windows and put out the lights. Awaken me at eight o'clock. Remind me that I must prepare a paper for the Royal Blues."

I did as he directed. As I closed the door behind me I heard the baron mur

mur:

"A Watson at last! Thank God!"

Outside in the corridor I ran into the pathetic little chaperon, who stared at me with startled eyes. I don't think she had expected to see me alive again.

"Ach Gott in Himmel!" she exclaimed. "Miss Gwendolyn she would know what happened."

"Tell Miss Gwendolyn that as a valet I am a triumphant success. My name is Watson," I added grandly.

"Colossal! Wundervoll!" came in tones of admiration from the slowly reviving chaperon.

We reached the chamber in which I was to spend the night. Fräulein bade me good night and left me.

While I undressed I decided that my days as a tourist were over. Watson chance had made me, and Watson I would remain until some faux pas of mine brought down on me the baron's displeasure. I got into bed and turned out the light.

Somewhere under the same roof Gwendolyn slept, or lay awake thinking of me as I was thinking of her. There was something about this thought that sent me into Slumberland more serenely and mellifluously than I had ever gone before.

T was in the month of October, 1915, that I made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Dauche. I cannot recall that period now without deep emotion. We had passed several scorching weeks before Sapigneul; the Champagne offensive had been rumbling for a long time on our right, and its last eddies washed in upon our sector like the strayed waves of some cyclone at sea, the fury of which scatters itself far and wide. For three days our guns had echoed those of La Pouilleuse, and we had been awaiting, our arms at our feet, an order that had not come. We had troubled, vacant minds, still reeling from that sort of intoxication of sound which results from a prolonged bombardment. We were both relieved at not having to make a deadly assault and anxious about the reasons that had spared us from having to do so.

It was then that I was wounded for the first time. Chance, the hazard of the hospital evacuations, took me to the Château de S, which is only a very commonplace adornment to the landscape, but which rises out of the midst of charming verdure, and from the side of its small hill overlooks the delicate little valley of the Vesle.

My wound, though not serious, was still painful. It gave me a slight fever and a strong desire for silence and solitude. It pleased me to live for long hours in the company of a physical suffering that I could endure, but that put my patience to the test, and made me reflect on the vulnerability of a constitution in which until then I had placed an obstinate confidence.

I occupied a pleasant room, decorated with hangings of Jouy and soft paintings. My bed occupied it, together with that of another officer, who walked silently about the room and showed great

consideration for my reserve. The day came, however, when I was allowed to take food, and on that day we talked together, doubtless because old human traditions lead men who are dining together into conversation.

Despite the state of mind in which I had been until then, this conversation was a pleasure for me and a resource against myself. I was given to somber thoughts and all the sadness of the period. From the beginning Lieutenant Dauche seemed to me a soul full of serenity and calm happiness. Later I saw what an admirable thing it was in him to have preserved such virtues in the midst of an unremitting adversity that had not spared him a single trial.

Both of us were originally from Lille; this was a bond between us. The falling of an inheritance and certain business interests early in life had led Dauche to settle in the Department of the Meuse and make his home there. He had married happily, and with his young wife had two beautiful babies. A third was about to be born when the German invasion convulsed the face of France and the whole world, ruined a prosperous business, and violently separated Dauche from his children and his wife of whom since then he had had only the most uncertain and the most disquieting news.

In the same way I, too, had left my affections and my property in the invaded country. In Dauche's company I felt the strength of that solidarity which is engendered by a like misfortune. I realized, however, that my comrade was enduring much greater misfortunes than mine, and with a heart which, for all its sensitiveness, was braver than mine, as was proved to me many times.

Dauche was of a pleasant height. He had the high color and the fair hair of