After a restless night, we sailed away in the hot dawn of a Wednesday.  The shores of America faded behind us, and as the days went by, we had the odd sense of threading uncharted seas; we found it more and more difficult to believe that this empty, lonesome ocean was the Atlantic in the twentieth century.  Once we saw a four-master; once a shy, silent steamer avoided us, westward bound; and once in mid-ocean, tossed on a sea sun-silvered under a rack of clouds, we overtook a gallant little schooner out of New Bedford or Gloucester—­a forthfarer, too.

Meanwhile, amongst the Americans, the socializing process had begun.  Many elements which in a former stratified existence would never have been brought into contact were fusing by the pressure of a purpose, of a great adventure common to us all.  On the upper deck, high above the waves, was a little ‘fumoir’ which, by some odd trick of association, reminded me of the villa formerly occupied by the Kaiser in Corfu —­perhaps because of the faience plaques set in the walls—­although I cannot now recall whether the villa has faience plaques or not.  The room was, of course, on the order of a French provincial cafe, and as such delighted the bourgeoisie monopolizing the alcove tables and joking with the fat steward.  Here in this ‘fumoir’, lawyers, doctors, business men of all descriptions, newspaper correspondents, movie photographers, and millionaires who had never crossed save in a ‘cabine de luxe’, rubbed elbows and exchanged views and played bridge together.  There were Y. M. C. A. people on their way to the various camps, reconstruction workers intending to build temporary homes for the homeless French, and youngsters in the uniform of the American Field Service, going over to drive camions and ambulances; many of whom, without undue regret, had left college after a freshman year.  They invaded the ‘fumoir’, undaunted, to practise atrocious French on the phlegmatic steward; they took possession of a protesting piano in the banal little salon and sang:  “We’ll not come back till it’s over over there.”  And in the evening, on the darkened decks, we listened and thrilled to the refrain: 

              “There’s a long, long trail a-winding
               Into the land of my dreams.”

We were Argonauts—­even the Red Cross ladies on their way to establish rest camps behind the lines and brave the mud and rains of a winter in eastern France.  None, indeed, were more imbued with the forthfaring spirit than these women, who were leaving, without regret, sheltered, comfortable lives to face hardships and brave dangers without a question.  And no sharper proof of the failure of the old social order to provide for human instincts and needs could be found than the conviction they gave of new and vitalizing forces released in them.  The timidities with which their sex is supposedly encumbered had disappeared, and even the possibility of a disaster at sea held no terrors for them.  When the sun