The Enormous Room

I was strolling carelessly and solo from the cook-wagon toward one of the two tents--which protestingly housed some forty huddling Americans by night--holding in my hand an historic morceau de chocolat, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in a suspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the bureau, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whose painful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general at least, I thought, regretting the ex...