resolving to get as many cigarettes as she could to take back for the
men in the garage. She crossed the street, but looked back to find the
thin man creeping after her. She waited for him, irritated.

"Go back. If the American salesman sees you he'll know it's for the
French, and he won't sell."

"Tiens?"

"He knew that quite well," she thought impatiently to herself, "or he
wouldn't have asked me to buy for him."

The thin man turned back to the cover of the shop like an eager little
dog which has jumped too quickly for biscuit and been snubbed.

She went down the street and into the Y.M.C.A.

Instantly she was among three or four hundred men, who stood with their
backs to her, in queues up the long wooden hall. Far ahead on the
improvised counter was a _guichet_ marked "Cigars." She placed herself
at the tail of that queue.

"Move up, lady," said the man in front of her, moving her forward. "Say
here's a lady. Move her up."

Men from the other queues looked round, and one or two whistled slyly
beneath their breath, but her own queue adopted her protectingly, and
moved her up to their head, against the counter.

It was out of the question to get cigars now. She had become a guest,