We splashed the thirty miles to the other end of the camp and inflicted ourselves on a major of marines. He seemed deliberately unfriendly at first, but it was only his manner. After five minutes of awkward monosyllabic dialogue he gave us the usual refreshments and took us out to see the town, the name of which should be Mud if it isn’t. “This is a grand climate,” he said. “They must have had conscription to get people to live here.” He took us to the camp kitchen, of which he was evidently and justly proud. It was a model of convenience and cleanliness. He spoke to the cook. “Are you very busy?” he asked. “No, sir,” was the reply. “Then I’d shave if I were you,” said the major. “Daily shaving,” he told us when we got outside, “ought to be compulsory in our army as it is in the British. When a man hasn’t shaved he isn’t at his best, physically, morally, or mentally. When he has he’s got more confidence in himself; his morale is better. Shaving has a psychological effect, and I try to impress my men with the importance of it. They say it’s a difficult operation here, but I guess if the Tommies can do it in the trenches, we can in these billets.” We remarked on the increasing popularity of mustaches among the men. “I don’t object to them,” said the major. “Neither do I see any sense to them. To my mind they’re in a class with monocles or an appendix. But so long as the men keep their cheeks and chins smooth, they’re at liberty to wear as much of a misplaced eyebrow as they can coax out.” The major showed us his hospital and his dentist shop and marched us up a steep hill, where, in the rain, we saw a great many interesting things and promised not to write about them. After lunch we decided it would be patriotic to go home and remove our wet clothes. In my case, this meant spending the rest of the day in my room, and that’s where I am. _Sunday, September 2. Paris._ The driver assigned to take me to the train, which left from the next village this morning, lost his way, and we reached the station just as the engine was sounding the Galli-Curci note that means All Aboard. There was no time to buy a ticket, and you can’t pay a cash fare on a train in France. But the conductor, or whatever you call him here, said I could get a ticket at the destination, Paris; in fact, I must get a ticket or spend the rest of my unnatural life wandering about the station. I found a seat in a compartment in which were a young American officer, beginning his forty-eight hours’ leave, and a young French lady who looked as if she had been in Paris before. The young officer and I broke into conversation at once. The young lady didn’t join in till we had gone nearly twenty kilomet’s.