I was sitting in the library when my guest, Chef-Major Weitzel, rode up
to the gate. I had a good chance to look him over, as he marched up the
path. He was a dapper, upright, little chap. He was covered with dust
from his head to his heels. I could have written his name on him
anywhere. Then I went to the door to meet him. I suppose he had been
told that he was to be lodged in the house of an American. He stopped
abruptly, halfway up the path, as I appeared, clicked his heels
together, and made me his best bow, as he said:--
"I am told, madame, that you are so gracious as to offer me a bed."
I might have replied literally, "Offer? I had no choice," but I did not.
I said politely that if Monsieur le Chef-Major would take the trouble to
enter, I should do myself the distinguished honor of conducting him to
his chamber, having no servant for the moment to perform for him that
service, and he bowed at me again, and marched in--no other word for
it--and came up the stairs behind me.
As I opened the door of my guest-room, and stood aside to let him pass,
I found that he had paused halfway up and was giving my raftered green
salon and the library beyond a curious glance.
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