Luncheon commenced. There was tactful talk
of America, our position in the submarine controversy, our political conventions, the possibility
of our entering the war. There was—as always
at such gatherings—an undercurrent of wonder,
never quite reaching the surface, that we should
have found it to our best interests to have held
aloof.
I gathered, not particularly from this conversation, rather everywhere in England and France, that a belief had grown since the beginning of the war in our lack of homogeneity. We were, it was suspected, incapable of direct and concerted action, In those days the men who were actually treading the exhausting mill frequently placed upon us—whether justly, who can tell?—the taint of many races, the incoherence of too vast a variety of creeds and desires and antipathies.
The general called my attention to the officer on my other side. He wore the facings of a major. He was small and of a scholarly type, so that it appeared unlikely any extraordinary experiences lurked behind those quiet eyes. A moment later it seemed a miracle he should sit with us at all. Because he had landed with the first expeditionary force under General French, had fought at Mons, had survived that nightmare retreat which had ended with the officers' corps cut to pieces. He
