“I do hope you’ll help me out,” she was saying. “It wouldn’t be of any use for me to go, you know. But I’ll go with you. I’ll be your sister if you don’t mind.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say that there were other relationships he would prefer, but he did not. She was not that sort of a girl. And he was uneasily aware, too, that her interest in him was purely academic. Not that he put it that way, of course. “The one thing you mustn’t do,” she warned him, “is to tell when you actually sail. I thought you might say that the submarine trouble has held up all sailings, and you’re not going for a month.” “All right,” he agreed. “Just when do you sail?” she asked suddenly. He was exceedingly troubled. He had no finesse, and here was a point-blank question. He answered it bluntly. “Sorry. I can’t tell you.” “You’re a good boy,” she said with approval. “I know anyhow, so it doesn’t matter. I just wondered if you would tell.” “You know a lot of things,” was his admiring comment. Half an hour later he was following the girl into a dingy elevator. He was suffering the pangs of bitter disappointment, for on his observing that if the fellow tried to find out when the division was sailing he would throw him out of the window the girl had turned on him sharply. “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said. “You’ll tell him what we’ve agreed on, and that’s all.” “All?” he had protested. “And let him get away with it?” “We’ll decide what to do later,” she had answered cryptically. And somehow he had felt that he had fallen in her estimation. In the elevator she said out of a clear sky: “You’ll have to take that raincoat off, of course.” He swallowed nervously. “Sure I will,” he replied. “But—look here, you don’t mind if I ask you to stay out while I’m being done, do you? I—I’m funny about pictures. I don’t like any one round. Queer thing,” he went on desperately, seeing her face. “Always been like that. I——” “I didn’t come here to see you have a photograph taken,” she replied coldly. For the next half hour he did not see her. He was extremely busy. J. M. Booth proved to be a slow worker. Sergeant Gray, who had been recently mixing with all races in the Army, was quick to see that he spoke fluent English with a slight burr. “French, aren’t you?” he asked genially while Mr. Booth shifted the scenery. “Alsatian,” corroborated Mr. Booth. “But this is my country. I have even taken an American name. Now if you will remove the raincoat——” Sergeant Gray moved a step nearer to him. “Can’t,” he explained in a low tone. “Nothing under it. You’ll have to shoot as I am.” “No uniform?” “No uniform. What d’you think of a country that will send fellows to fight like that, eh?” Mr. Booth’s small black eyes peered at him suspiciously. “Is it possible?” he demanded. “This great country, so rich, and—no uniforms.”