“My God, lady, you bet your life I do,” and he shook my hand again, and came in, remarking, “I’m an American myself—­from New York—­ great city, New York—­can’t be beat.  I wish all my comrades could see Broadway—­that would amaze them,” and then he turned to his companion to explain, “J’ai dit a Madame que je voudrais bien que tous les copains pouvaient voir Broadway—­c’est la plus belle rue de New York—­ils seront epates—­tous,” and he turned to me to ask “N’est-ce pas, Madame?”

I laughed.  I had to.  I had a vivid picture of his comrades seeing New York for the first time—­you know it takes time to get used to the Great White Way, and I remembered the last distinguished Frenchman whom the propaganda took on to the great thoroughfare, and who, at the first sight and sound and feel of it, wanted to lay his head up against Times Square and sob like a baby with fright and amazement.  This was one of those flash thoughts.  My caller did not give me time for more than that, for he began to cross-examine me—­ he wanted to know where I lived in America.

It did not seem worth while to tell him I did not live there, so I said “Boston,” and he declared it a “nice, pretty slow town,” he knew it, and, of course, he added, “But my God, lady, give me New York every time.  I’ve lived there sixteen years—­got a nice little wife there—­ here’s her picture—­and see here, this is my name,” and he laid an envelope before me with a New York postmark.

“Well,” I said, “if you are an American citizen, what are you doing here, in a French uniform?  The States are not in the war.”

His eyes simply snapped.

“My God, lady, I’m a Frenchman just the same.  My God, lady, you don’t think I’d see France attacked by Germany and not take a hand in the fight, do you?  Not on your life!”

Here is your naturalization business again.

I could not help laughing, but I ventured to ask:  “Well, my lad, what would you have done if it had been France and the States?” He curled his lip, and brushed the question aside with: 

“My God, lady!  Don’t be stupid.  That could never be, never, on your life.”

I asked him, when I got a chance to put in a word, what he did in New York, and he told me he was a chauffeur, and that he had a sister who lived “on Riverside Drive, up by 76th Street,” but I did not ask him in what capacity, for before I could, he launched into an enthusiastic description of Riverside Drive, and immediately put it all into French for the benefit of his copain, who stood by with his mouth open in amazement at the spirited English of his friend.

When he went away, he shook me again violently by the hand, exclaiming:  “Well, lady, of course you’ll soon be going back to the States.  So shall I. I can’t live away from New York.  No one ever could who had lived there.  Great country the States.  I’m a voter—­I’m a Democrat—­always vote the Democratic ticket—­voted for Wilson.  Well, goodbye, lady.”