CHAPTER XIII
A THIRD-CLASS COMPARTMENT—A FRENCHMAN AMONGST THE RUINS
After a few miles of such travelling as had now become
familiar, I determined that I would change my carriage
and pay a visit to the French colonel—which proved far
more lengthy than I had intended.
When I had manipulated the climb, I found plenty of room in spite of boxes.
"What on earth are you doing here?" was his first question, to which I gave him a tu quoque.
"I am looking after the French interests in Syria," he replied, an answer that could not fail to provoke a laugh.
"That is well worth noting," I said, "a parallel to my journey from London to Edinburgh, via Paris! It will make 'good news' for the British Foreign Office."
"And in what way can it concern them?" was the stiff reply. "Their own record in these parts is not entirely sans reproche."
"Don't forget I am an Englishwoman and not, as you insist on saying, an American."
"Is it not practically the same? You speak one language."
I started up, almost in anger. "Never dare to say such a thing again. I might as well ask whether you were a Senegali. The language is the same. Individual Americans, some parts of their country, I consider, are magnificent, but their Government!"
"Will any Government bear close inspection?"
"Perhaps not."
