Howard had to exercise a good deal of tact to get rid of her before his coffee cooled.
An hour later, spruce and shaved and leading Ronnie by the hand, he went out into the street.
The little boy, dressed in beret, overcoat, and socks, looked typically French; by contrast Howard in his old tweed suit looked very English.
For ten minutes he fulfilled his promise in the market square, letting the child drink in his fill of camions, guns, and tanks.
They stopped by one caterpillar vehicle, smaller than the rest.
'Celui-ci,' said Ronnie clearly, 'c'est un char de combat.'
The driver smiled broadly.
'That's right,' he said in French.
Howard said in French: 'I should have called it a tank, myself.'
'No, no, no,' the little boy said earnestly.
'A tank is much bigger, monsieur.
Truly.'
The driver laughed.
'I've got one myself just like that, back in Nancy.
He'll be driving one of these before he's much older, le petit chou.'
They passed on, and into the station.
For hah0 an hour they searched the platforms, still thronged with the tired troops, but found no sign of the lost suitcase.
Nor could the overworked and worried officials give any help.
At the end of that time Howard gave it up; it would be better to buy a few little things for the children that he could carry in the attache case when they moved on.
The loss of a suitcase was not an unmixed disaster for a man with a weak heart in time of war.
They left the station and walked up towards the centre of the town to buy pyjamas for the children.
They bought some purple sweets called cassis to take back with them for Sheila, and they bought a large green picture-book called Bahar the Elephant.
Then they turned back to the hotel.
Ronnie said presently: 'There's a motor-car from England, monsieur.
What sort is it?'
The old man said: 'I don't suppose I can tell you that.'
But he looked across the road to the filling-station. It was a big open touring car, roughly sprayed dull green all over, much splashed and stained with mud.
It was evidently weeks smee it had had a wash.
Around it, two or three men were bustling to get it filled with petrol, oil, and water.
One of them was manipulating the air hose at the wheels.
One of the men seemed vaguely familiar to the old man.
He stopped and stared across the road, trying to place where they had met.
Then he remembered; it was in his club six months before.
The man was Roger Dickinson; something to do with a newspaper.
The Morning Record - that was it.
He was quite a well-known man in his own line.
Howard crossed the road to him, leading Ronnie by the hand.
'Morning,' he said.
'Mr Roger Dickinson, isn't it?'
The man turned quickly, cloth in hand; he had been cleaning off the windscreen.
Recognition dawned in his eyes.
'I remember,' he said.
'In the Wanderers' Club...'
'Howard is the name.'
'I remember.'
The man stared at him.
'What are you doing now?'
The old man said: 'I'm on my way to Paris, but I'm hung up here for a few days, I'm afraid.'
He told Dickinson about Sheila.
The newspaperman said: 'You'd better get out, quick.'