opposed by military and government, by police and Y.M.C.A., and good influence of good people.  But they will never wholly stamp it out.

Nor do I want to say much about the society women who are “rushing” the officers.  There may be one here and there with her heart in the right place, but with most of them it must be, first, this something about war that has unbalanced women; and secondly, a fad, a novelty, a new sentimental stunt, a fashion set by some leader.  Likewise I want to say but little about the horde of common, street-chasing, rattled-brained women and girls who lie in wait for soldiers at every corner, so to speak.  All these, to be sure, may be unconsciously actuated by motives that do not appear on the surface; and if this be true, their actions are less bold, less raw than they look.

What I want to dwell upon is my impression of something strange, unbalanced, incomprehensible, about the frank conduct of so many well-educated, refined, and good women I see; and about the eagerness, restlessness, the singular response of nice girls to situations that are not natural.

To-night a handsome, stylishly gowned woman of about thirty came up to me with a radiant smile and a strange brightness in her eyes.  There were five hundred couples dancing on the floor, and the music and sound of sliding feet made it difficult to hear her.  She said:  “You handsome soldier boy!  Come dance with me?” I replied politely that I did not dance.  Then she took hold of me and said, “I’ll teach you.”  I saw a wedding-ring on the hand she laid on my arm.  Then I looked straight at her, “Madam, very soon I’ll be learning the dance of death over in France, and my mind’s concerned with that.”  She grew red with anger.  She seemed amazed.  And she snapped, “Well, you are a queer soldier!” Later I watched her flirting and dancing with an officer.

Overtures and advances innumerable have been made to me, ranging from the assured possession-taking onslaught like this woman’s to the slight, subtle something, felt more than seen, of a more complex nature.  And, Lenore, I blush to tell you this, but I’ve been mobbed by girls.  They have a thousand ways of letting a soldier know! I could not begin to tell them.  But I do not actually realize what it is that is conveyed, that I know; and I am positive the very large majority of soldiers misunderstand.  At night I listen to the talks of my comrades, and, well—­if the girls only heard!  Many times I go out of hearing, and when I cannot do that I refuse to hear.

Lenore, I am talking about nice girls now.  I am merciless.  There are many girls like you—­they seem like you, though none so pretty.  I mean, you know, there are certain manners and distinctions that at once mark a really nice girl.  For a month I’ve been thrown here and there, so that it seems I’ve seen as many girls as soldiers.  I have been