"This way, monsieur," she said. "I have a little table for you here in the court."
A spasm of memory clutched Stewart's heart as he saw the snowy table set in a shady corner, and he drank his coffee and ate his rolls and honey like a man in a dream.
"Monsieur Stewart?" asked a voice.
He looked up to find a French officer standing at his elbow.
"Yes," he said. "Pardon me; I did not see you."
"Monsieur was distrait," said the other, with a smile. "I have a message," and he held out a large, square envelope.
With a hand whose trembling he could not control, Stewart tore open the envelope and unfolded the note within. It was very brief:
Dear Monsieur Stewart:
There is a distressing lack of surgeons at the Belgian front, and we are sending all that we can. I remember your generous offer of your services, and if I may command them I trust that you will join the party which is leaving at once.
Faithfully yours,
Fernande.
No news, then! But here was something he could do—wounds to dress—suffering to relieve.
"I am ready," he said, and rapped for his bill.