is centred in his study, full of books, engravings, a large safe, telephone, theatrophone, newspapers, cigarettes, easy-chairs.  When I go in, an old friend, a stockbroker, is there, and “thees” and “thous” abound in the conversation, which runs on investments, the new English loan, banking accounts in London, the rent moratorium in Paris, and the war.  It is said that every German is a critic of war.  But so is every Frenchman a critic of war.  The criticism I now hear is the best spoken criticism, utterly impartial, that I have heard.

“In sum,” says the grey-headed stockbroker, “there disengages itself from the totality of the facts an impression, tolerably clear, that all goes very well on the West front.”

Which is reassuring.  But the old lady, invincible after seven-and-a-half decades spent in the hard acquirement of wisdom, will not be reassured.  She is not alarmed, but she will not be reassured.  She treats the two men with affectionate malice as children.  She knows that “those birds”—­that is to say, the Germans—­will never be beaten, because they are for ever capable of inventing some new trick.

She will not sit still.  A bit of talk, and she runs off with the agility of a girl to survey her household; then returns and cuts into the discussion.

“If you are coming to lunch, Bennett,” she says, “come before Monday, because on Monday my cook takes herself away, and as for the new one, I should dare to say nothing. . . .  You don’t know, Bennett, you don’t know, that at a given moment it was impossible to buy salt.  I mean, they sold it to you unwillingly, in little screws of paper.  It was impossible to get enough.  Figure that to yourself, you from London!  As for chicory for the morning cafe-au-lait, it existed not.  Gold could not buy it.”

And again she said, speaking of the fearful days in September 1914: 

“What would you?  We waited.  My little coco is nailed there.  He cannot move without a furniture-van filled with things essential to his existence.  I did not wish to move.  We waited, quite simply.  We waited for them to come.  They did not come.  So much the better That is all.”

I have never encountered anything more radically French than the temperament of this aged woman.

Next:  the luxury quarter—­the establishment of one of those fashionable dressmakers whom you patronise, and whose bills startle all save the most hardened.  She is a very handsome woman.  She has a husband and two little boys.  They are all there.  The husband is a retired professional soldier.  He has a small and easy post in a civil administration, but his real work is to keep his wife’s books.  In August he was re-engaged, and ready to lead soldiers under fire in the fortified camp which Gallieni has evolved out of the environs of Paris; but the need passed, and the uniform was laid aside.  The two little boys are combed and dressed as only French and American children are combed and dressed, and with a more economical ingenuity than American children.  Each has a beautiful purple silk necktie and a beautiful silk handkerchief to match.  You may notice that the purple silk is exactly the same purple silk as the lining of their mother’s rich mantle hanging over a chair back.