two days before the term begins, the impersonal valet, the chambermaid of the set two-franc smile, and the unbending head-waiter had given place to one’s own brothers and sisters, full of one’s own anxieties.  “My son is an aviator, monsieur.  I could have claimed Italian nationality for him at the beginning, but he would not have it.” . . .  “Both my brothers, monsieur, are at the war.  One is dead already.  And my fiance, I have not heard from him since March.  He is cook in a battalion.” . . .  “Here is the wine-list, monsieur.  Yes, both my sons and a nephew, and—­I have no news of them, not a word of news.  My God, we all suffer these days.”  And so, too, among the shops—­the mere statement of the loss or the grief at the heart, but never a word of doubt, never a whimper of despair.

“Now why,” asked a shopkeeper, “does not our Government, or your Government, or both our Governments, send some of the British Army to Paris?  I assure you we should make them welcome.”

“Perhaps,” I began, “you might make them too welcome.”

He laughed.  “We should make them as welcome as our own army.  They would enjoy themselves.”  I had a vision of British officers, each with ninety days’ pay to his credit, and a damsel or two at home, shopping consumedly.

“And also,” said the shopkeeper, “the moral effect on Paris to see more of your troops would be very good.”

But I saw a quite English Provost-Marshal losing himself in chase of defaulters of the New Army who knew their Paris!  Still, there is something to be said for the idea—­to the extent of a virtuous brigade or so.  At present, the English officer in Paris is a scarce bird, and he explains at once why he is and what he is doing there.  He must have good reasons.  I suggested teeth to an acquaintance.  “No good,” he grumbled.  “They’ve thought of that, too.  Behind our lines is simply crawling with dentists now!”

A PEOPLE TRANSFIGURED

If one asked after the people that gave dinners and dances last year, where every one talked so brilliantly of such vital things, one got in return the addresses of hospitals.  Those pleasant hostesses and maidens seemed to be in charge of departments or on duty in wards, or kitchens, or sculleries.  Some of the hospitals were in Paris. (Their staffs might have one hour a day in which to see visitors.) Others were up the line, and liable to be shelled or bombed.

I recalled one Frenchwoman in particular, because she had once explained to me the necessities of civilized life.  These included a masseuse, a manicurist, and a maid to look after the lapdogs.  She is employed now, and has been for months past, on the disinfection and repair of soldiers’ clothes.  There was no need to ask after the men one had known.  Still, there was no sense of desolation.  They had gone on; the others were getting ready.