an 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:

"There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams."

We were Argonauts--even the Red Cross ladies on their way to establish
rest camps behind the lines and brave the mud and rains of a winter
in eastern France. None, indeed, were more imbued with the forthfaring
spirit than these women, who were leaving, without regret, sheltered,
comfortable lives to face hardships and brave dangers without a
question. And no sharper proof of the failure of the old social order to
provide for human instincts and needs could be