But the war will change that, is already changing it.

‘Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner’.  We have been soaked in the same common law, literature, and traditions of liberty—­or of chaos, as one likes.  Whether we all be of British origin or not, it is the mind that makes the true patriot; and there is no American so dead as not to feel a thrill when he first sets foot on British soil.  Our school-teachers felt it when they began to travel some twenty years ago, and the thousands of our soldiers who pass through on their way to France are feeling it today, and writing home about it.  Our soldiers and sailors are being cared for and entertained in England just as they would be cared for and entertained at home.  So are their officers.  Not long ago one of the finest town houses in London was donated by the owner for an American officers’ club, the funds were raised by contributions from British officers, and the club was inaugurated by the King and Queen—­and Admiral Sims.  Hospitality and good-will have gone much further than this.  Any one who knows London will understand the sacredness of those private squares, surrounded by proprietary residences, where every tree and every blade of grass has been jealously guarded from intrusion for a century or more.  And of all these squares that of St. James’s is perhaps the most exclusive, and yet it is precisely in St. James’s there is to be built the first of those hotels designed primarily for the benefit of American officers, where they can get a good room for five shillings a night and breakfast at a reasonable price.  One has only to sample the war-time prices of certain hostelries to appreciate the value of this.

On the first of four unforgettable days during which I was a guest behind the British lines in France the officer who was my guide stopped the motor in the street of an old village, beside a courtyard surrounded by ancient barns.

“There are some of your Americans,” he remarked.

I had recognized them, not by their uniforms but by their type.  Despite their costumes, which were negligible, they were eloquent of college campuses in every one of our eight and forty States, lean, thin-hipped, alert.  The persistent rains had ceased, a dazzling sunlight made that beautiful countryside as bright as a coloured picture post-card, but a riotous cold gale was blowing; yet all wore cotton trousers that left their knees as bare as Highlanders’ kilts.  Above these some had an sweaters, others brown khaki tunics, from which I gathered that they belonged to the officers’ training corps.  They were drawn up on two lines facing each other with fixed bayonets, a grim look on their faces that would certainly have put any Hun to flight.  Between the files stood an unmistakable gipling sergeant with a crimson face and a bristling little chestnut moustache, talking like a machine gun.

“Now, then, not too lidylike!—­there’s a Bosch in front of you!  Run ’im through!  Now, then!”