One of the girls--she had a pretty delicate face and a serious way of
speech--smiled, with a sigh that seemed to come from her little high-
heeled boots.

"It is difficult to live. I was a singing girl at Montmartre. My lover is
at the war. There is no one left. It is the same with all of us. In a
little while we shall starve to death. Mais, pourquoi pas? A singing
girl's death does not matter to France, and will not spoil the joy
of her victory!"

She lifted a glass of amer picon--for the privilege of hearing the truth
she could tell me I was pleased to pay for it--and said in a kind of
whisper, "Vive la France!" and then, touching her glass with her lips:
"Vive l'Angleterre!"

The other girl leaned forward and spoke with polite and earnest
inquiry.

"Monsieur would like a little love?"

I shook my head.

"Ça ne marche pas. Je suis un homme sérieux." "It is very cheap to-
day," said the girl. "Ça ne coûte pas cher, en temps de guerre."


7