"Pas du tout, pas du tout! Plaisir, plaisir!" exclaimed the colonel.
"And I think you would like to hear from—" Hazlewood glanced at the passport—"from Miss Scarlett? Sylvia Scarlett?" he repeated, looking at her. "Why, I believe we have a friend in common. Aren't you a friend of Michael Fane?"
Sylvia realized how familiar his name should be to her; and she felt that her eyes brightened in assent.
"He's in Serbia, you know," said Hazlewood.
"Now?" she asked.
"Yes. I'll tell you about him. Je demande pardon, mon colonel, mais je connais cette dame."
"Enchanté, enchanté," said the colonel, getting up and shaking hands cordially. "Le Capitaine Antonivitch. Le Lieutenant Lazarevitch," he added, indicating the other officers, who saluted and shook hands with her.
"They're awful dears, aren't they?" murmured Hazlewood. Then he went on in French, "But, mon colonel, I beg you will ask Miss Scarlett any questions you want to ask about this man Rakoff."
"Vous me permittez, madame?" the colonel inquired. "Desolé, mais vous comprenez, la guerre c'est comme ça, n'est-ce pas? Ah oui, la guerre."
Everybody in the office sighed in echo, "Ah oui, la guerre!"