Inimitably Herbert French's Paris, a gay, humorous Paris, half-Americanized, which the cynical, satiric youth squeezes for its last possible laugh. A desk commando who fights behind a typewriter, he's the butt of most of his jokes, he and his fellows. With dreams of 1917, he goes in quest of la femme fatale, succeeds in dating a few French bobby-sxrs, a Miss Luscious already conquered by the A.A.F., a less-disillusioning cabaret dancer, but the rest of French womanhood seems staunchly escorted by tall Frenchmen. Of interest, too, in this personal record, are his new intellectual friends, a circle of symphony musicians, the janitors in the office, an itchy, hard-working little urchin, a bike ride to Versailles, a visit to the catacombs of Paris. A gay, light-hearted book, effortless leisurely humor, with occasional lagging spots. Try on servicemen on leave.