country be so rich when his had been devastated, so thinned, so difficult
to live in? Fanny thought of the poor huddled clients who had sat on the
floor of the car during the snowstorm. It had been a bitter journey for
them.

After all--those rich, those pink and happy Americans, leather-coated
down to the humblest private, pockets full of money, and fat meals three
times a day to keep their spirits up--why shouldn't they let him have
their cigarettes?

"You can have this carton, too, if you like," she said, offering it.
"I'll manage to slip in to-morrow morning."

He thanked her, delighted, and they went back to the hotel.

The problem of the kindness of the Americans, and her frequent abuse of
it to benefit the French, puzzled her.

"But, after all, it's very easy to be kind. It's much easier to be kind
if you are American and pink than if you are French and anxious."

Another difference between the two nations struck her.

"The Americans treat me as if I were an amusing child. The French, no
matter how peculiar their advances, always, always as a woman."

Next morning, when she got down to breakfast at eight, she found that
the three Frenchmen had already gone out about their work.

"Perhaps I shall get home to-night, after all," she prayed. She sat in