"Unfortunately that's the only front I know anything about."
"I thought writers used their imagination sometimes," said Celia to anybody who might happen to be listening.
"Oh, well, if you put it like that," I said, "I suppose I must."
So I settled down to a story about the Salonica Front.
The scene of my story was laid in an old clay hut amid the wattles.
"What are wattles?" asked Celia, when I told her the good news.
"Local colour," I explained. "They grow in Bulgaria."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure that these ones did; I don't know about any others."
Of course more local colour was wanted than a mere wattle or two. It was necessary therefore for my Bulgarians always to go about in comitadjis. Celia thought that these were a kind of native trouser laced at the knee. She may be right. My own impression is that they are a species of platoon. Anyhow the Bulgars always went about in them.