And he didn’t know whence he had come nor whither he was going. Then either his train moved or mine did—I couldn’t tell which—and I saw him no more. _Vandœuvres-sur-Barse._—Wood, wood, piled high on every kind of wheeled thing. Forests from which it had been cut showing sharp and thin, fringing the gold-brown fields under the luminous noonday heaven. And here for a moment the green was so delicate and the yellow so tender, that I had a fleeting illusion of spring as I looked out. Then I fell to talking with some young officers of the 131st Artillery from Texas, but nothing that I remember. They had made no impression on France, neither did France seem to have made any impression on them. _Bar-sur-Aube._—Old houses, old walls, blue hills, a white road leading over one of them. Strange church tower, with a round, many-windowed top, and in each window hangs an old bell. A great trainload of American infantry “going up,” the station, too, flooded with khaki, and another train passed crowded with _poilus_ evidently _en permission_, making rather fundamental toilets. And around about Bar, as we slipped out, was a silver-vaulted world of terra-cotta and purple hills, green and brown fields, silver hayricks, silver sheep grazing near, and warm, brindled cattle, many green-painted bee-hives, and fruit trees trained against pink walls. Gentle slopes, later to become the Alps, appeared, and beech forests, like very worn India shawls, clung to them, and a row of nearby poplars had each its nimbus of yellow light. About this time, having had a hasty cup of tea at six, I began to be so hungry that the luster went from the landscape and my eyes received nothing more. I didn’t care whether the talkative man gave his wife a surprise or not, and the two Americans of the Texan Artillery section had long since also ceased to interest me, when I heard a “nosy” voice saying: “Gosh! I tell you, boys, there’s big money to be made over here after the war. All you have to do is to hang out the sign, ‘American Dentist,’ and your waiting-room’ll burst.” I sat down and nearly slept by the side of the six-foot dozing handsome officer, with the beautiful blue uniform, and yellow pipings on his trousers and cap, and five service and three wound stripes, and the number 414 on his collar, besides a lot of decorations on his breast. _1.30, Chaumont._—Sitting in the dining-car, finishing an excellent lunch. Of course, in common with the rest of the world, I’ve heard a good deal about Chaumont, but I can say that on the word of honor of an honest woman the only thing I saw in khaki in that famous station of the A.E.F. Headquarters was an emaciated Y.M.C.A. man about five feet four inches high, with an umbrella and a straw basket. Of course, I’m familiar with the phrases, “Chaumont has put its foot down,” “Chaumont won’t have it,” “Everything will be decided at Chaumont”; and once, entering a Paris restaurant, I heard the words, “It’s all Chaumont’s fault.”