he truth that a straight line is the
shortest distance between two points. For in order to arrive at one's
destination, it is usually necessary to go about sixty miles out of
one's way,--hence the necessity for Talbot's going to Boulogne in
order to get a train running north.

He arrived at Boulogne only to find that the train for B---- left in
an hour.

He strolled out into the streets. Boulogne had then become the Mecca
for all those in search of gaiety. Here were civilized people once
again. And a restaurant with linen and silver and shining glass, and
the best dinner he had ever eaten.

When he had paid his bill and gone out, he stopped at the corner of
the street just to look at the people passing by. A large part of the
monotony of this war is occasioned, of course, by the fact that the
soldier sees nothing but the everlasting drab of uniforms. When a man
is in the front line, or just behind, for weeks at a time he sees
nothing but soldiers, soldiers, soldiers! Each man has the same
coloured uniform; each has the same pattern tunic, the same puttees.
Each is covered with the same mud for days at a time. It is the
occasion for a thrill when a "Brass Hat" arrives, for he at least has
the little brilliant red tabs on his tunic! A man sometimes finds
himself envying the soldiers of the old days who could have occasional
glimpses of the dashing uniforms of their officers, and although a red
coat makes a target of a man, the colour is at least more cheerful
than the eternal khaki. The old-time soldier had his red coat and his
bands, blaring encouragingly. The soldier of to-day has his drab and
no music at all, unless he sings. And every man in an army is not
gifted with a voice.

So Talbot looked with joy on the charming dresses and still more
charming faces of the women and girls who passed him. Even the men in
their civilian clothes were good to look upon.

Riding on French trains is very soothing unless one is in a hurry. But
unlike a man in civil life, the soldier has no interest in the speed
of trains. The civilian takes it as a personal affront if his train is
a few minutes late, or if it does not go as fast as he thinks it
should. But the soldier can afford to let the Government look after
such minor details. The train moved along at a leisurely pace through
the lovely French countryside, making frequent friendly stops at
wayside stations. On the platform at Etaples station was posted a
rhyme which read:--