not hold the King's commission but swaggered it as something in the
Red Cross--God knows what!--the drab of its colour gave a thrill to all
those people of Paris who, at least in the first months of the war, were
stirred with an immense sentiment of gratitude because England had
come to the rescue in her hour of need, and had given her blood
generously to France, and had cemented the Entente Cordiale with
deathless ties of comradeship. "Comme ils sont chics, ces braves
anglais!" They did not soon tire of expressing their admiration for the
"chic" style of our young officers, so neat and clean-cut and
workmanlike, with their brown belts and brown boots, and khaki riding
breeches.

"Ulloh... Engleesh boy? Ahlright, eh?" The butterfly girls hovered
about them, spread their wings before those young officers from the
front and those knights of the Red Cross, tempted them with all their
wiles, and led them, too many of them, to their mistress Circe, who
put her spell upon them.

At every turn in the street, or under the trees of Paris, some queer
little episode, some startling figure from the great drama of the war
arrested the interest of a wondering spectator. A glimpse of tragedy
made one's soul shudder between two smiles at the comedy of life.
Tears and laughter chased each other through Paris in this time of
war.

"Coupé gorge, comme ça. Sale boche, mort. Sa tête, voyez. Tombé
à terre. Sang! Mains, en bain de sang. Comme ça!"

So the Turco spoke under the statue of Aphrodite in the gardens of
the Tuileries to a crowd of smiling men and girls. He had a German