At his hotel he calls up Captain X---- of the American Aviation,--an old friend, who is in Paris on duty,--and is lucky enough to catch him at his apartment. They dine at the Cercle des Alliés--the old Rothschild palace, now made into a great military club, where one can see many interesting men of all the Allied armies lunching and dining together. Dinner over, they drop in at the Olympia, watch the show a bit, and greet a multitude of friends who stroll about among the tables. A great deal of air-gossip goes on: A---- has just bagged another Boche; B----, poor chap, was shot down two days ago; C---- is a prisoner, badly wounded. At a table near by, Wilkins, for the first time, sets eyes on Lufbery, the famous American "ace," his breast a mass of ribbons, his rather worn face lit up by a pleasant smile as he talks to a French officer beside him. At eleven our young pilot says good-bye to his friend and walks through the darkened streets to his hotel. What a joy, to sleep in a real bed again! The train leaves at noon, which will give him time for a late breakfast and a little shopping in the morning. After the first real night's sleep in a month, and a light war-time breakfast of omelet, bacon, broiled kidneys, and coffee, he is on the boulevards again, searching for a really good pair of goggles, a fur-lined flying cap to replace the hopeless helmet, and a pair of heavy mittens. Old friends, in the uniforms of American subalterns, are everywhere; many wear the stiff-looking wings of the American Flying Corps on their breasts. All are filled with envy to hear that he is leaving for the front; their turn will come before long, but meanwhile the wait grows tiresome. At length it is train time, and so, hailing a taxi and picking up his bag on the way, Wilkins heads (let us say) for the Gare de l'Est, getting there just in time to reserve a place and squeeze into the dining-car, which is crowded with officers on their way to the front. These are not the embusqué type of officers which he has been accustomed to in the schools,--clerkish disciplinarians, insistent on all the small points of military observance,--but real fighting men and leaders; grizzled veterans of the Champagne and the Somme, hawk-nosed, keen-eyed, covered with decorations. Back in his compartment, our pilot dozes through the afternoon, until, just as it has become thoroughly dark, the train halts at Robinet. On the platform, half a dozen pilots of the escadrille, smart in their laced boots and black uniforms, are waiting to welcome the newcomer, and escort him promptly to the mess, where dinner is ready. Dinner over, he is shown to his room--an officer's billet, with a stove, bathtub, and other unheard-of luxuries.