Somewhere in France
by Richard Harding Davis
Even after I uncovered Talbott, I had neither the heart nor the inclination to distract him. Indeed, if one of the passengers had not testified that I belonged to another profession, the crowd in the smoking room would have quarantined me as an accomplice. The first night I met him, I wasn't sure if he was British or if he had been given an imitation. All the external and visible signs were in English, but he told me that although he studied at Oxford and has since spent most of his years playing polo in India, he is American.
