At any other time how I would have revelled in the idea of his two theatres, his schools, his libraries, his statues pillaged from my beautiful Greece, his philosopher’s wall—­a huge wall built only for shade, so that his friends who came to discourse philosophy with him could walk in its west shadow mornings, and in its east shadow afternoons; all these things would have driven me wild with enthusiasm.  But on that day I saw instead the Flying Squadron in Hampton Roads, painted black.  I saw the President and his secretaries, with anxious faces, consulting with their generals; I saw how awful must be the sacrifice to the country in every way—­money, commerce, health, the very lives of the dear soldiers of our army, who fight from choice, and not because law compels their enlistment.  My companion ridiculed my anxiety and rallied me on my inattention to Hadrian.  Hadrian!  What was Hadrian to me when I thought of the volunteers in America?

Not two days later war was formally declared, and although Rome was yet practically unexplored, although we had been there only three weeks, we rushed post-haste to Paris, spent one day gathering up our trunks from Munroe’s, and left that same night for London.

Once in London, however, we found ourselves blocked.  The American Line steamships had been requisitioned by the government, and were no longer at our disposal.  With changed names they were turned into war vessels, and few, indeed, were the women who would go aboard them in the near future.  The North German Lloyd promised us the new Kaiser Friedrich, and every place was taken.  We went to the Cecil Hotel and waited.  Day after day passed, and the sailing-day was postponed once, then twice.  I was frantic with impatience.  The truth was the Kaiser Friedrich was not quite finished.  Evidently it is the same with a ship as with dress-makers.  They promise to finish your gown and send it home for Thanksgiving, whereas you are in luck if you get it by Christmas.

The only thing that consoled me was being at the Cecil.  To be sure, it was filled with Americans, but I was not avoiding them then.  I had finished my journeyings.  I had got my point of view.  I was going HOME!

How I wished for poor Bee!  What an awful time she had with me at “The Insular”! (which, of course, is not its real name; but I dare not tell it, because it is so smart, and I would shock its worshippers).  How she hated our lodgings!  Now she will not believe me when I tell her that the Cecil is as good as an American hotel; that its elevators (lifts) really move; that its cuisine is as delicious as Paris; that its service is excellent.  Bee is polite but incredulous.  To be sure, I tell her that the hotel is as ugly as only an English architect could make it; that the blue tiles in the dining-room would make of it a fine natatorium, if they would only shut the doors and turn in the water—­nothing convinces her that English hotels are not jellied nightmares.  But as for me, I recall the Cecil with feelings of the liveliest appreciation.  I was comfortable there, for the first time in England.  If it had not been for the war I would have been happy.