difficult to believe that this empty, lonesome ocean was the Atlantic in
the twentieth century. Once we saw a four-master; once a shy, silent
steamer avoided us, westward bound; and once in mid-ocean, tossed on a
sea sun-silvered under a rack of clouds, we overtook a gallant little
schooner out of New Bedford or Gloucester--a forthfarer, too.

Meanwhile, amongst the Americans, the socializing process had begun.
Many elements which in a former stratified existence would never have
been brought into contact were fusing by the pressure of a purpose, of a
great adventure common to us all. On the upper deck, high above the
waves, was a little 'fumoir' which, by some odd trick of association,
reminded me of the villa formerly occupied by the Kaiser in Corfu
--perhaps because of the faience plaques set in the walls--although I
cannot now recall whether the villa has faience plaques or not. The room
was, of course, on the order of a French provincial cafe, and as such
delighted the bourgeoisie monopolizing the alcove tables and joking with
the fat steward. Here in this 'fumoir', lawyers, doctors, business men
of all descriptions, newspaper correspondents, movie photographers, and
millionaires who had never crossed save in a 'cabine de luxe', rubbed
elbows and exchanged views and played bridge together. There were
Y. M. C. A. people on their way to the various camps, reconstruction
workers intending to build temporary homes for the homeless French,
and youngsters in the uniform of the American Field Service, going over
to drive camions and ambulances; many of whom, without undue regret,
had left college after a freshman year. They invaded the 'fumoir',
undaunted, to practise atrocious French on the phlegmatic steward; they
took possession of a protesting piano in the banal little salon and sang:
"We'll not come back till it's over over there." And in the evening, on
the darkened decks, we listened and thrilled to the refrain: