table was set. The curtains were drawn from the windows, and John caught
through one of them a glimpse of the Seine, of marching troops in long
blue coats and red trousers, and of the great city, massing up beyond
like a wall.

He felt that he had never before sat down to so strange a table. The
world without was shaking beneath the tread of the mightiest of all
wars, but within this room was peace and quiet. Madame was like a Roman
matron, and the young Julie, though shy, had ample dignity. John liked
Lannes' manner toward them both, his fine subordination to his mother
and his protective air toward his sister. He was glad to be there with
them, a welcome guest in the family.

The dinner was served by a tall young woman. Picard's daughter Suzanne,
to whom Lannes had referred, and she served in silence and with
extraordinary dexterity one of the best dinners that he ever ate.

As the dinner proceeded John admired the extraordinary composure of the
Lannes family. Surely a woman and a girl of only seventeen would feel
consternation at the knowledge that an overwhelming enemy was almost
within sight of the city they must love so much. Yet they did not refer
to it, until nearly the close of the dinner, and it was Madame who
introduced the subject.

"I hear, Philip," she said, "that a bomb was thrown today from a German
aeroplane into the Place de l'Opéra, killing a woman and injuring
several other people."

"It is true, mother."