There is always an angle of the particular from which one can see it as a part of the universal; and seen properly the finite is always infinite.  And that brings us back naturally to Henry and me, looking out at the scurrying stars in the ocean as we hurried through the black night on the good ship Espagne.  We had just folded away a fine Sunday dinner, a French Sunday dinner, beginning with onion soup which was strange; and as ominous of our journey into the Latin world as a blast of trumpets opening a Wagnerian overture.  Indeed that onion soup was threaded through our whole trip like a motif.  Our dinner that night ended in cheese and everything.  It was our first meal aboard the boat.  During two or three courses, we had considered the value of food as a two-way commodity—­going down and coming up—­but later in the dinner we ordered our food on its merits as a one-way luxury, with small thought as to its other uses.  So we leaned against the rail in the night and thought large thoughts about Wichita and Emporia.

Here we were, two middle-aged men, nearing fifty years, going out to a ruthless war without our wives.  We had packed our own valises at the hotel that very morning in fear and trembling.  We realized that probably we were leaving half our things in closets and drawers and were taking the wrong things with us, and checking the right things in our trunks at our hotels in New York.  We had some discussion about our evening clothes, and on a toss-up had decided to take our tails and leave our dinner coats in the trunks.  But we didn’t know why we had abandoned our dinner coats.  We had no accurate social knowledge of those things.  Henry boasted that his wife had taught him a formula that would work in the matter of white or black ties with evening clothes.  But it was all complicated with white vests and black vests and sounded like a corn remedy; yet it was the only sartorial foundation we had.  And there we were with land out of sight, without a light visible on the boat, standing in the black of night leaning over the rail, looking at the stars in the water, and wondering silently whether we had packed our best cuff buttons, “with which to harry our foes,” or whether we might have to win the war in our $17.93 uniforms, and we both thought and admitted our shame, that our wives would think we had “been extravagant in putting so much money into those uniforms.  The admirable French dinner which we had just enveloped, seemed a thousand miles away.  It was a sad moment and our thoughts turned naturally to home.

“Fried chicken, don’t you suppose?” sighed Henry.

“And mashed potatoes, and lots of thick cream gravy!” came from the gloom beside him.

“And maybe lima beans,” he speculated.

“And a lettuce salad with thousand island dressing, I presume!” came out of the darkness.