far ahead, evidently the light of a candle diffused
through windows. They walked towards the light
and found a small farm house. It surprised them
first of all because war seemed to have passed it
by. They knocked at the door. A French woman
with a pleasant, middle-aged face opened for
them. Inimediately both men experienced a sense
of something out of the way. There was a queerness, not at all definable, about the pleasant face.
It frightened them, made them want to go where
its stare could no longer include them. But they
couldn't go. The storm had become violent.
They were exhausted by a day of labour and perpetual risk. They told the woman they must
spend the night in her house. She continued to
stare. At last she shook her head with a mechanical determination.
Were there no men? The men were all at the war.
Her voice had the quality of her face, pleasant, determined—staring They explained that they understood that her house was small, but surely it contained two rooms. They called her attention to the storm.
“You must see that it is necessary for us to spend the night here."
Again her head moved mechanically.
You cannot spend the night here."
