all kinds of people and also all kinds of peoples to make a world.
And the war really is being fought so that they may work out their
lives and their national traditions freely and after the call of
their own blood. If we are to have only one kind of people, the
kind is easy to find. There is kultur!

Still the love affairs of the French did bother us. Henry did
not mind them so much; but to me they seemed as unreasonable and
as improbable as the ocean and onion soup seemed to Henry. Every
man has his aversion, and the French idea of separating love from
marriage, and establishing it beautifully in another relation, is
my aversion, and it will have to stand. Henry was patient with me,
but we were both genuinely glad when a day or two later we came back
to the sprightly little American love affair that we had chaperoned
on the Espagne crossing the ocean. That love affair we could
understand. It had been following us with a feline tenacity all
over France. When we left the Eager Soul with the Gilded Youth in
the hospital at--we'll say Landrecourt, because that is not the
place--we thought our love affair was gone for ever. The letter
she gave us to deliver to the Young Doctor we had to trust to other
hands; for he was not at the American hospital where he should have
been. He had gone to the British front for a week's experimental
work in something with four syllables and a Latin name at that. But
the cat came back one day, when we were visiting a hospital four
hours out of Paris. The place had that curious French quality
of charm about it, which we Americans do not manage to put into
our "places and palaces." Down a winding village street--a kind
of low-walled stone canyon, narrow and grey, but brightened with
uniforms like the streets of most French villages these days--we
wormed our machine and stopped at an important looking building--an