THE Romance of the Red Triangle is a twenty-four hours a day romance, for many of its centres never close their doors. When we are comfortably sleeping at night and in the early hours of the morning, Y.M.C.A. workers are hard at work on motor patrol conveying leave men from station to station or hut to hut, and others are on foot meeting the men and guiding them to their destination. Alighting from the Edinburgh train at Leeds very early one morning, it was raining and a young Scottish trooper stepped down to the platform from the adjoining compartment. We knew we were all right, a room having been retained for us at the Station Hotel; but what of him? Had he anywhere to go? He evidently had no plans, but at that moment a gentleman in civilian attire stepped up to him, and without patronising, and in the most natural way possible said to him, 'Have you long to wait? Have you anywhere to go?' The lad replied that he had several hours to wait for his connection and had nowhere to go. 'Well, come along with me, and I will see you all right at the Y.M.C.A.' People who do this work or devote themselves, night after night, to that of the motor patrols don't often get their photos into the papers, but they are rendering national service of a high order without fee or reward, and in almost every case, at the end of a hard day's work. The International Hospitality League of the Y.M.C.A. is doing similar work on a very large scale, and in its kiosks and inquiry rooms, not only in London, but in Glasgow, Edinburgh, and many of our large provincial centres hundreds of thousands of inquiries are being received and answered day by day, whilst the street patrol workers have been able to help very many who have welcomed their assistance. We know of no more moving sight than one of the great Triage huts in France when leave is on. We think of our last visit to one such. Three hundred men were sleeping there that night, and 'Uncle Joe,' the Y.M.C.A. leader, went round the bunks last thing to see them safely tucked in. As we stood in the main hall we thought we understood what was said of our Lord that 'when He saw the multitude He was filled with compassion.' Scores of men were gathered around the piano, singing rowdy choruses of the kind loved by our Tommies. The coffee queue extended the whole length of the room, and the men had to buy their tickets from Uncle Joe, who had a few words with each in homely Lancashire dialect, whilst further along the counter a titled lady was serving coffee as fast as she could pour it out. There were crowds round the tables, reading or feeding. We noticed at one table a group of men, one of whom was cutting up a long French loaf, another had just opened a tin of sardines which he was sharing round, whilst a third was helping his comrades from a tin of pears. All were on their way home on leave, or returning to the Front, and all were merry and happy as British Tommies almost invariably are.