d about the place as if indeed they had bought every stone.

Great were our surmises as to what "L. of C." actually stood for, one
suggestion being "Lords of Creation," and another, "Lords of Calais"! It
was comparatively disappointing to find out it only stood for "Lines of
Communication."

English people have a strange manner of treating their compatriots when
they meet in a foreign country. You would imagine that under the
circumstances they would waive ceremony and greet one another in
passing, but no, such is not the case. If they happen to pass in the
same street they either look haughtily at each other, with apparently
the utmost dislike, or else they gaze ahead with unseeing eyes.

We rather resented this "invasion," as we called it, and felt we could
no longer flit freely across the Place d'Armes in caps and aprons as
heretofore.

In June of 1915, my first leave, after six months' work, was due.
Instead of going to England I went to friends in Paris. The journey was
an adventure in itself and took fourteen hours, a distance that in peace
time takes four or five. We stopped at every station and very often in
between. When this occurred, heads appeared at every window to find out
the reason. _"Qu' est ce qu'il y'a?"_ everyone cried at once. It was
invariably either that a troop train was passing up the line and we must
wait for it to go by, or else part of the engine had fallen off. In the
case of the former, the train was looked for with breathless interest
and handkerchiefs waved frantically, to be used later to wipe away a
furtive tear for those _brave poilus_ or "Tommees" who were going to
fight for _la belle France_ and might never return.

If it was the engine that collapsed, the passengers, with a resigned
expression, returned to their seats, saying placidly: "_C'est la
guerre, que voulez-vous_," and no one grumbled or made any other
comment. With a grunt and a snort we moved on again, only to stop a
little further up the line. I came to the conclusion that that rotten
engine must be tied together with string. No one seemed to mind or
worry. "He will arrive" they said optimistically, and talked of other
things. At every station fascinating-looking _infirmieres_ from the
French Red Cross, clad in white from top to toe, stepped into the
carriage jingling little white tin boxes. "_Messieurs, Mesdames, pour
les blesses, s'il vous plait_,"[8] they begged, and everyone fumbled
without a murmur in their pock