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“Oh,” groaned the Divorcee, “right over the flower beds!”

“Bother it all, don’t look out,” shouted the Youngster from his room. “That’s just like a woman! Be a sport!” And he dashed down the hall. We had just time to see that he had “put that uniform on.” He was going into the big game, and he was dressed for the part. In a certain sense, all the men were, when we at last, bags in hand, gathered in the dining room, so we were not surprised to find the Nurse in her hospital rig, with a white cap covering her hair, and the red cross on her arm. We knew at once that she was remaining behind with the Doctor and the Critic.

The cars were at the door. Angele, with her baby in her arms, was sitting in one.

“Come on,” said the Doctor, “the quicker you are out of this the better.”

And, almost without a word, like soldiers under orders, we were packed into the two cars. The Youngster, the Lawyer, and the two officers stood together with their heads bent over a map.

“Better take a side road,” said the officer, “until you get near to Meaux, then take the route de Senlis. It will lead you right over the hill into the Meaux, then you will find the route nationale free. Cross the Marne there, and on into Paris by the forest of Vincennes.”

“Let the Lawyer lead,” said the Doctor, “and be prudent, Youngster. You know where a letter will reach me. See that the girls get off safely!” He shook hands all round. The cars shot out of the gate, tooted for a passage through the straggling line of tired men in Khaki, took the first turn to get out of the way, and shot down the hill to the river.

“Well,” said the Youngster, who was driving our car, with the Violinist beside him, “I think we behaved fine, and, by Jove, how I hate to go just now! But I have to join day after to-morrow, and I suppose it will be a long time before I see anything as exciting as this. Bother it. Well, you were amazed at the calmness only yesterday!”

No one replied. We were all busy with our own thoughts, and with “playing the game.” In silence we crossed the first bridge. Day was just breaking as we mounted the hill on the other side. Suddenly the Youngster put on the brake.

“Here,” he said to the Violinist, “take the wheel a moment. I must look back.”

Just as he spoke there was a tremendous explosion.

“Bomb,” he cried, as he got out his glass, and, standing on the running board, looked back. “They’ve got it,” he yelled. “Look!”

We all piled out of the car, and ran to the edge of the hill. From there we could look back and just see the dear old house standing on the opposite height in its walled garden.

There was another explosion, and a puff of smoke seemed to rise right out of the middle of the garden, where the old tree stood, under which we had dined so many evenings.

For a few minutes we stood in silence.

It was the gentle voice of the Violinist that called us back. “Better get on,” he said. “We can do nothing now but obey orders,” and quietly we crawled back and the car started on.

We did not speak again until we ran up to the gates of Paris, and stopped to have our papers examined for the last time. Then I said, with a laugh: “And only think! I did not tell my story at all!”

“That’s so,” said the Youngster. “What a shame. Never mind, dear, you can tell the whole story!”–And I have.