Madame, of the cash-desk, sat in the dining-room, for company's sake, fixing up accounts as though the last day of reckoning had come...as it had. Her hair, with its little curls, was still in perfect order. She had two dabs of color on her cheeks, as usual, but underneath a waxen pallor. She was working out accounts with a young officer, who smoked innumerable cigarettes to steady his nerves. “Von Tirpitz” was going round in an absent-minded way, pulling at his long whiskers.
The war correspondents talked together. We spoke gloomily, in low voices, so that the waiters should not hear.
“If they break through to Abbeville we shall lose the coast.”
“Will that be a win for the Germans, even then?”
“It will make it hell in the Channel.”
“We shall transfer our base to St.-Nazaire.”
“France won't give in now, whatever happens. And England never gives in.”
“We're exhausted, all the same. It's a question of man-power.”
“They're bound to take Albert to-night or to-morrow.”
“I don't see that at all. There's still a line...”