Just then we were winding up a narrow street and the chauffeur was tooting in vain, trying to persuade a half-dozen soldiers carrying bales of bay on their backs, to make room for us to get by. With much evident reluctance the first man drew a bit to the right, the second vociferated something in a picturesque patois, and just as we passed the third, I leaned forward and grabbed the driver by the collar.
"Stop, stop a minute!" I gasped.
He must have thought I was mad, and Madame M. probably imagined I had suddenly lost my wits, when she saw me plunge out of the motor, race towards one of the bales, tear it from the carrier's back with a violence that nearly upset the man, and then, throwing my arms about his neck, embrace him.
"You? Already?" gasped H., and then as we realized that we were making a public spectacle of ourselves, the color rose to our cheeks.
A hasty explanation followed, in which I told my plans.
"And you, what on earth are you doing here?" I questioned.
"Well—just what you see. All of us from Villiers have been sent to bring horses to the front, and a fine job it is. I wish you could see the nags! None of them rideable!"
"But after they're delivered—what?"
"I wish I knew myself."
"And when can we meet?"