Every one felt it incumbent upon him to show some slight civility to his neighbour. Soldiers saluted civilians; civilians embraced soldiers. Young military gentlemen kissed young ladies of the dressmaking persuasion. Exuberant daughters of Gaul joined hands and danced in a ring round embarrassed Anglo-Saxon officers, or tweaked the tails of the Glengarry bonnets of passing “Jocks.” At each _porte-cochère_ snuffy concierges were phlegmatically tearing down the printed signs tacked upon the outer doors—_Abri, 25 places_—with an almost genial, “_Et voilà!_” A spirit of brotherly love prevailed: Boone and Frances saw a Paris taxi-driver distinctly slow down to avoid running over two young ladies whose cavaliers were playfully endeavouring to push them under his front wheels. Presently an aged man in a blue blouse and a species of yachting-cap accosted them. “_Américain?_” he demanded. “_Oui_,” admitted Boone cautiously. He had already stalled off more than one would-be kisser. “_Blessé!_” added Frances proudly. The old gentleman shook hands with both of them, several times. Tears were running down his cheeks. “_Et maintenant_,” he told them, “_mon fils reviendra!_” And he hobbled off, to spread the great news elsewhere. * * * * * By the afternoon Paris had resolved itself into processions, mainly of soldiers and girls intertwined. Nearly everybody was singing. The French sang the _Marseillaise_, or _Madelon_. The English-speaking races devoted their energy, which was considerable, to a ditty with the mysterious refrain— _Would you rather be a Colonel, with an eagle on your shoulder,_ _Or a private, with a chicken on your knee?_ Ordinary vehicular traffic had almost entirely removed itself from the streets—probably from the instinct of self-preservation; for the few taxis which still survived carried never less than fifteen passengers, mostly on the roof. But huge military motor-trucks were ubiquitous. They were mainly British and American, but they bore a cargo completely representative of the Franco-Italo-Anglo-American _entente_, from the impromptu jazz-band of some thirty artistes perched upon the canvas roof, to the quartette of Australian soldiers and their lady friends sitting astride the radiator, bob-sleigh fashion, and wearing one another’s hats. It is needless to add that small French boys adhered like flies to all the less accessible parts of the vehicle. As evening approached, and the electric arc-lamps awoke sizzling and sputtering from their enforced sleep of many gloomy months, one question began to exercise the collective faculties of the celebrants:— “Where shall we go to-night?” In most cases the answer was simple enough. At moments of intense mental exaltation the Anglo-Saxon in Paris turns to the Folies Bergères as simply and spontaneously as your true Moslem turns towards Mecca at the call of the muezzin. But Boone and Frances cared for none of these things.