He looked me over a moment before he said, "Please invite me into your garden and show me that view."
I was delighted. I opened the gate, and he strolled in and sauntered with a long, slow stride—a long-legged stride—out on to the lawn and right down to the hedge, and looked off.
"Beautiful," he said, as he took out his field-glass, and turned up the map case which hung at his side. "What town is that?" he asked, pointing to the foreground.
I told him that it was Mareuil-on-the-Marne.
"How far off is it?" he questioned.
I told him that it was about two miles, and Meaux was about the same distance beyond it.
"What town is that?" he asked, pointing to the hill.
I explained that the town on the horizon was Penchard—not really a town, only a village; and lower down, between Penchard and Meaux, were Neufmortier and Chauconin.
All this time he was studying his map.
"Thank you. I have it," he said. "It is a lovely country, and this is a wonderful view of it, the best I have had."