German consul's visa or of dining at a French restaurant without the
French consul's.

"And again!" said Harvard, 1914, as we came to another sentry.
There was good reason why Harvard had his pass in a leather-bound
case under a celluloid face. Otherwise, it would soon have been worn
out in showing. He had been warned by the Commission not to talk
and he did not talk. He was neutrality personified. All he did was to
show his pass. He could be silent in three languages. The only time I
got anything like partisanship out of him and two sentences in
succession was when I mentioned the Harvard-Yale football game.
"My! Wasn't that a smear! In their new stadium, too! Oh, my! Wish I
had been there!"

When the car broke a spring half-way to Antwerp, he remarked,
"Naturally!" or, rather, a more expressive monosyllable which did not
sound neutral.

While he and the Belgian chauffeur, with the help of a Belgian farmer
as spectator, were patching up the broken spring, I had a look at the
farm. The winter crops were in; the cabbages and Brussels sprouts in
the garden were untouched. It happened that the scorching finger of
war's destruction had not been laid on this little property. In the yard
the wife was doing the week's washing, her hands in hot water and
her arms exposed to weather so cold that I felt none too warm in a
heavy overcoat. At first sight she gave me a frown, which instantly
dissipated into a smile when she saw that I was not German.

If not German, I must be a friend. Yet if I were I would not dare talk--
not with German sentries all about. She lifted her hand from the suds