“How old are you?”      

       “Thirty.”      

       “Where do you live?”      

       “In New York and Washington.” If he could be laconic, so could I.     

       “You were born in America?”      

       “No. I was born in Paris.” By this time questions and answers were like the pop of rifle-shots.     

       “That was a long way from home. Lucky you chose the country of one of our Allies.” Was this sarcasm or would-be humor? It had an unpleasant ring.     

       “Glad you like it,” I responded, with a cold stare, “but I didn’t pick it.”      

       “Well, if you weren’t born in the States, are you an American citizen?” he imperturbably pursued.     

       “If you’ll consult my passport, you’ll see that I am.”      

       “Did either your father or your mother have any German blood?”      

       I could hear a slight rustle back of me among the passengers, none of whom, it was plain, had been subjected to such cross-questioning. I was growing restive, but I couldn’t tell him it was not his business; of course it was.     

       “No; they didn’t,” I briefly replied.     

       “About your destination now.” He was making notes of all my answers. “You are going to Italy, and then—”      

       “To France.”      

       “Roundabout trip, rather. The Bordeaux route is safer just now and quicker, too. Why not have gone that way? And how long are you planning to stop over on this side?”      

       “It depends upon circumstances.” What on earth ailed the fellow? He was as annoying as a mosquito or a gnat.     

       “I beg your pardon, but your plans seem rather at loose ends, don’t they? What are you crossing for?”   

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