streets full of a few divine people who stared at me and nudged one
another, the streets of Paris ... the drowsy ways wakening at the horses'
hoofs, the people lifting their faces to stare.

We arrived at the Gare, and I recognized it vaguely. Was it D'Orleans? We
dismounted, and the tremendous transaction of the fare was apparently
very creditably accomplished by the older. The _cocher_ gave me a look
and remarked whatever it is Paris drivers remark to Paris cab horses,
pulling dully at the reins. We entered the station and I collapsed
comfortably on a bench; the younger, seating himself with enormous
pomposity at my side, adjusted his tunic with a purely feminine gesture
expressive at once of pride and nervousness. Gradually my vision gained
in focus. The station has a good many people in it. The number increases
momently. A great many are girls. I am in a new world--a world of _chic_
femininity. My eyes devour the inimitable details of costume, the
inexpressible nuances of pose, the indescribable _demarche_ of the
_midinette_. They hold themselves differently. They have even a little
bold color here and there on skirt or blouse or hat. They are not talking
about La Guerre. Incredible. They appear very beautiful, these
Parisiennes.

And simultaneously with my appreciation of the crisp persons about me
comes the hitherto unacknowledged appreciation of my uncouthness. My chin
tells my hand of a good quarter inch of beard, every hair of it stiff
with dirt. I can feel the dirt-pools under my eyes. My hands are rough
with dirt. My uniform is smeared and creased in a hundred thousand
directions. My puttees and shoes are prehistoric in appearance....

My first request was permission to visit the _vespasienne_. The younger
didn't wish to assume any unnecessary responsibilities; I should wait