At Amiens a dainty Parisienne stepped into the compartment.  She was clad in a navy blue tailleur with a very smart pair of high navy blue kid boots and small navy blue silk hat.  The other occupants of the carriage consisted of a well-to-do old gentleman in mufti, who, I decided, was a commercant de vin, and two French officers, very spick and span, obviously going on leave. La petite dame bien mise, as I christened her, sat in the opposite corner to me, and the following conversation took place.  I give it in English to save translation: 

After a little general conversation between the officers and the old commercant the latter suddenly burst out with:—­“Ha, what I would like well to know is, do the Scotch soldiers wear the pantalons or do they not?” Everyone became instantly alert.  I could see la petite dame bien mise was dying to say something.  The two French officers addressed shrugged their shoulders expressive of ignorance in the matter.  After further discussion, unable to contain herself any longer, la petite dame leant forward and addressing herself to the commercant, said, “Monsieur, I assure you that they do not!”

The whole carriage “sat up and took notice,” and the old commercant, shaking his finger at her said: 

“Madame, if you will permit me to ask, that is, if it is not indiscreet, how is it that you are in a position to know?”

The officers were enjoying themselves immensely. La petite dame hastened to explain.  “Monsieur, it is that my window at Amiens she overlooks the ground where these Scotch ones play the football, and then a good little puff of wind and one sees, but of course,” she concluded virtuously, “I have not regarded, Monsieur.”

They all roared delightedly, and the old commercant said something to the effect of not believing a word.  “Be quiet, Monsieur, I pray of you,” she entreated, “there is an English young girl in the corner and she will of a certainty be shocked.” “Bah, non,” replied the old commercant, “the English never understand much of any language but their own” (I hid discreetly behind my paper).

As we neared Paris there was another stop before the train went over the temporary bridge that had been erected over the Oise.  We could still see the other that had been blown up by the French in order to stem the German advance on Paris in August 1914.  This shattered bridge brought it home to me how very near to Paris the Boche had been.

As I stepped out of the Gare du Nord all the people were looking skywards at two Taubes which had just dropped several bombs.  Some welcome, I thought to myself!

Paris in War time at that period (June, 1915) wore rather the appearance of a deserted city.  Every third shop had notices on the doors to the effect that the owners were absent at the war.  Others were being run by the old fathers and mothers long since retired, who had come up from the country to “carry on.”  My friend told me that when she had returned to Paris in haste from the country, at the beginning of the war, there was not a taxi available, as they were all being used to rush the soldiers out to the battle of the Marne.  Fancy taxi-ing to a battlefield!