And although his face in repose was grave, he smiled often. He
superintended the making of the coffee by the peasant woman and
instructed her to prepare the table.
She obeyed pleasantly. Indeed, it was odd to see that between this
elderly Frenchwoman and her strange guests--people of whose existence
on the earth I dare say she had never heard until this war--there was
the utmost good will. Perhaps the Indians are neater than other
troops. Certainly personal cleanliness is a part of their religion.
Anyhow, whatever the reason, I saw no evidence of sulkiness toward the
Indians, although I have seen surly glances directed toward many of
the billeted troops of other nationalities.
Conversation was rather difficult. We had no common ground to meet on,
and the ordinary currency of polite society seemed inadequate, out of
place.
"The weather must be terrible after India," I ventured.
"We do not mind the cold. We come from the north of India, where it is
often cold. But the mud is bad. We cannot use our horses."
"You are a cavalry regiment?" I asked, out of my abysmal ignorance.
"We are Lancers. Yes. And horses are not useful in this sort of
fighting."
From a room beyond there was a movement, followed by the entrance of a
young Frenchman in a British uniform. Makand Singh presented him and
he joined the circle that waited for coffee.
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