It is wonderful how these
old chaps take it all to heart.
All the time my heart is out there in the northeast. It is not my
country nor my war--yet I feel as if it were both. All my French
friends are there, all my neighbors, and any number of English friends
will soon be, among them the brother of the sculptor you met at my house
last winter and liked so much. He is with the Royal Field Artillery.
His case is rather odd. He came back to England in the spring, after
six years in the civil service, to join the army. His leave expired
just in time for him to reenter the army and see his first active
service in this war. Fortunately men seem to take it all as a matter of
course. That consoles some, I find.
I have just heard that there are two trains a day on which civilians can
go up to Paris IF THERE ARE PLACES LEFT after the army is accommodated.
There is no guaranty that I can get back the same day. Still, I am
going to risk it. I am afraid to be any longer without money, though
goodness knows what I can do with it. Besides, I find that all my
friends are flying, and I feel as if I should like to say "good-bye"--I
don't know why, but I feel like indulging the impulse.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76