write some of the wonder to all her friends; she would have included even a card to Sam Hilton. But all that was impossible.
Then the sight of French soldiers on the narrow streets and the many, many French women in mourning—mothers and widows—returned her to the grim, terrible business which had brought her here. She rejoined Hubert where he had been waiting for her at the end of a twisty, shadowy little street; he had bought a French newspaper; and when she came beside him, he glanced up at her gravely.
"They've sunk a transport with American troops, Cynthia," he said.
"Where? How many of our soldiers—?" she cried.
"The Tuscania to the north of Ireland; torpedoed when we were at sea. Two or three hundred of our men are missing; they don't know exactly how many yet."
The news had reached the others of the Ribot's passengers, who were taking the same train for Paris that afternoon. Ruth shared a compartment in the little European-gauged cars, with Milicent Wetherell and two French women; but the train was a "corridor train," as Ruth learned to say, and the occupants of the different compartments could visit one another much as they might in the larger American cars. There was news of recent air raids upon Paris—one raid had been most deadly and destructive; there was news of various sorts from the French and British fronts—a little news also from the short American sectors; for it was announced that the Americans had taken over a new portion of the line in Lorraine. But the report of the successful attack
