"Lait?" I suggested.
"That's it. Now, Mademoiselle-lay. But not canned stuff. Vray lay."
Her eyes grew wider and wider at this strange jargon.
"Comment, M'sieur?"
"Vray lay."
"I suppose you mean lait an naturel," growled James.
"Du lait frais," I hazarded.
"Ah. Comprends. C'est triste. Pas de lait frais. Les hôpitaux prennent tout."
"No milk?" wailed the Doctor. He looked fixedly at the table and one saw from the movement of his lips that he was mustering his forces for another plunge into the language. Meanwhile the War Babe, whose eyes had not left the girl's face, ventured again on the thin ice of speech.
"Mademoiselle," he began hesitatingly.