he knee, and a
bit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white pique
waistcoat. This classic costume usually comports a panama hat and an
umbrella. Now Monsieur S. had the umbrella, but in place of the panama
he had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's helmet, which
amazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainder
of his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully,
and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung over
one shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask.

[Illustration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]

For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode was
quite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the Post
Office to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were no
longer any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short of
general. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the whole
assembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos.

Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de Villeneuve, his umbrella swung
across his back, his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to ride a
bicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget.

"Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the air of a sportsman."

"My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs,
they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment sets
in how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?"

As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red Cross
Society while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroism
have astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend.

A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the only
room of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constant
bombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paper
had replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of the
German. Through the open, vine grown casement, I could look out onto a
cleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was a
perfect riot of colour.

Around the congenial board were gathered our hostess, the old Cure de
St. Vast, the General in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, three
Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself.

Naturally, the topic of conversation was the war, but strange as it may
seem, it was we, the civilians, that were telling our friends of the
diff