I was the only woman in the hotel dining room for luncheon. The food was good, but the service impossible, as there were some forty men, mostly officers, very hungry, and only one decrepit waiter to do the work. Good humor prevailed, each diner making allowances, and here for the first time I heard that expression, destined to become so popular as an excuse for almost anything: _Cest la guerre!_ My chauffeur kept me waiting, but my friend the alderman was on time. Finally the motor made its appearance. Something had happened on leaving St. Paul in the morning and the poor _hotelier_ had searched the entire city for a mechanic, but to no avail. All were _au service de l'armee_. Finally he had had to patch up things as best he could. As to an extra inner tube--such a thing didn't exist. We would have to take our chances with the wheel he had. We started, but hadn't gone two hundred yards when a back tire blew off! Well, thank goodness, we hadn't left town. So I returned to the hotel, and while Huberson and the alderman were fixing up damages and adjusting the emergency wheel, I had time to read all the back numbers of _Illustration,_ which the _Soled d'Or_ possessed, and commence a conversation with the proprietress, who sat in the court shelling peas for dinner. She was certain that the war would be over in three months at the utmost! At length I went out to see if I couldn't be of some assistance in the motor business, but Huberson said it would be ready in a few moments. As far as I could make out, my alderman friend was mostly a decorative personality, for he stood there with his hat on the back of his head, gesticulating vehemently, but never deigning to help my chauffeur in the slightest manner. When I asked him if he knew Soissons well and inquired if he could direct me to certain grocers where I could perhaps obtain a few provisions, he insisted on showing me the shops, with an alacrity which proved his incompetence at motor repairing. During that short promenade on foot, we encountered the whole Ninth Territorial Regiment--not under arms but _au repos_. The men were seated in front of the barracks reading the papers or idly smoking their pipes, and all yearning for "something to do." Their wish, I fear, has been more than satisfied. Start number two proved successful and we sped along very comfortably until we hit that long cobbled road. The day was exceedingly warm, the stones sun-baked, and after the first mile or so I saw Huberson looking nervously at his fore wheel. His anxiety was well founded, for half a minute later, whizz!--I could feel the rubber splitting! We stopped and all climbed out. "It's all up!" he exclaimed. "Not one--but two tires are burst, and the shoe of the emergency wheel is flapping like an old dirty rag!" "Now, in my time--" began the alderman.