The English--well, frankly, he was surprised at their lack of discipline
and general unruliness--all except some of the Indians, and those, he
must say, were well-trained--fine fellows and good soldiers. One could
surmise the workings of his mind as one thought of the average
happy-go-lucky Tommy Atkins, and then came across one of those tall,
straight, hawk-eyed Sikhs and saw him snap his heels together and his
arms to his sides and stand there like a bronze statue.

It was a dreadful job getting the Frenchmen to take exercise--"they
can't understand why any one should want to work, merely to keep himself
fit!" Aside from this idiosyncrasy they were, of course, the pleasantest
sort of people to get along with. We saw Frenchmen sorting mail in the
post-office, painting signs for streets, making blankets out of pasted-
together newspapers--everywhere they were treated as intelligent men to
whom favors could be granted. And, of course, there was this difference
between the French and English of the early weeks of the war--the French
army is one of universal conscription like the German, and business men
and farmers, writers, singers, and painters were lumped in together.
There was one particularly good-looking young man, a medical officer,
who flung up his head to attention as we came up.

"He helped us a lot--this man!" said the commandant, and laid his hand
on the young man's shoulder. The Frenchman's eyes dilated a trifle and
a smile flashed behind rather than across his face--one could not know
whether it was gratitude or defiance.

A sculptor who had won a prize at Rome and several other artists had had
a room set aside for them to work in. Some were making post-cards, some
more ambitious drawings, and in the sculptor's studio was the head of
the young doctor we had just seen and an unfinished plaster group for a