the reason. _"Qu' est ce qu'il y'a?"_ everyone cried at once. It was
invariably either that a troop train was passing up the line and we must
wait for it to go by, or else part of the engine had fallen off. In the
case of the former, the train was looked for with breathless interest
and handkerchiefs waved frantically, to be used later to wipe away a
furtive tear for those _brave poilus_ or "Tommees" who were going to
fight for _la belle France_ and might never return.

If it was the engine that collapsed, the passengers, with a resigned
expression, returned to their seats, saying placidly: "_C'est la
guerre, que voulez-vous_," and no one grumbled or made any other
comment. With a grunt and a snort we moved on again, only to stop a
little further up the line. I came to the conclusion that that rotten
engine must be tied together with string. No one seemed to mind or
worry. "He will arrive" they said optimistically, and talked of other
things. At every station fascinating-looking _infirmières_ from the
French Red Cross, clad in white from top to toe, stepped into the
carriage jingling little white tin boxes. "_Messieurs, Mesdames, pour
les blessés, s'il vous plaît_,"[8] they begged, and everyone fumbled
without a murmur in their pockets. I began with 5 francs, but by the
time I'd reached Paris I was giving ha' pennies.

At Amiens a dainty Parisienne stepped into the compartment. She was clad
in a navy blue _tailleur_ with a very smart pair of high navy blue kid
boots and small navy blue silk hat. The other occupants of the carriage
consisted of a well-to-do old gentleman in mufti, who, I decided, was a
_commerçant de vin_, and two French officers, very spick and span,
obviously going on leave. _La petite dame bien mise_, as I christened
her, sat in the opposite corner to me, and the following conversation
took place. I give it in English to save translation: