I returned thence to Mr. Gibbons’ room for my fitting. His extra uniform consisted of a British officer’s coat and riding breeches, puttees and shoes. Cap and khaki shirt I had to go out and purchase. The store I first selected was a gyp joint and wanted twenty-seven francs for a cap. I went to another store and got exactly the same thing for twenty-six. A careful shopper can save a lot of money in Paris. Provided with cap and shirt, the latter costing a franc less than the former, I went to a secluded spot and tried on the outfit, Mr. Gibbons assisting. We managed the puttees in thirty-five minutes. It is said that a man working alone can don them in an hour, provided he is experienced. “You look,” Mr. Gibbons remarked when I was fully dressed, “as if you had been poured into it.” But I felt as if I hadn’t said “when” quite soon enough. Mr. Gibbons and I differ in two important particulars--knee joints--and though I tried to seem perfectly comfortable, my knees were fairly groaning to be free of the breeches and out in the open fields. “Wear it the rest of the day and get used to it,” advised Mr. Gibbons. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to rumple it all up. I want to keep it neat for to-morrow.” And against his protest I tore myself out and resumed my humble Chicago garb. It’s no wonder regular correspondents and British officers are obliged to wear canes. The wonder is that they don’t use crutches. We leave at nine to-morrow morning. This means that myself and puttees will have to get up at four. _Wednesday, September 5. With the British._ The major has a very good sense of the fitness of things. The room where I’m writing, by candlelight, is the best guest room in our château and was once occupied by the queen. The rules of the household call for the dousing of down-stairs glims at eleven o’clock. After that you may either remain down there in total darkness or come up here and bask in the brilliant rays of a candle. You should, I presume, be sleepy enough to go right to bed, but you’re afraid you might forget something if you put off the day’s record till to-morrow. I overslept myself, as they say, and had to get Mr. Gibbons to help with the puttees. The lower part of the breeches, I found, could be loosened just enough to make the knee area inhabitable. [Illustration: “You look as if you had been poured into it”]