I was the only woman, a whim of Mr. Warren’s, and possibly that is the reason I found this dinner in the historic chamber above a dark and quiet Paris the most interesting I ever attended!  Perhaps it was because I sat at the head of the room between Monsieur Reinach and Monsieur Hanotaux; perhaps merely because of the evening’s climax.

Of course we talked of nothing but the war (one is bored to death in Paris if any other subject comes up).  Only one speech was made, an impassioned torrent of gratitude by Monsieur Hanotaux directed at our distinguished host, an equally impassioned “Friend of France.”  I forget just when it was that a rumor began to run around the room and electrify the atmosphere that a great naval engagement had taken place in the North Sea; but it was just after coffee was served that a boy from the office of Le Figaro entered with a proof-sheet for Monsieur Reinach to correct—­he contributes a daily column signed “Polybe.”  Whether the messenger brought a note from the editor or merely whispered his information, again I do not know, but it was immediately after that Monsieur Reinach told us that news had come through Switzerland of a great sea fight in which the Germans had lost eight battleships.

“And as the news comes from Germany,” he remarked dryly, “and as the Germans admit having lost eight ships we may safely assume that they have lost sixteen.”  And so it proved.

The following day in Paris was the gloomiest I have ever experienced in any city, and was no doubt one of the gloomiest in history.  Not a word had come from England.  Germany had claimed uncontradicted an overwhelming victory, with the pride of Britain either at the bottom of the North Sea or hiding like Churchill’s rats in any hole that would shelter them from further vengeance.  People, both French and American, who had so long been waiting for the Somme drive to commence that they had almost relinquished hope went about shaking their heads and muttering:  “Won’t the British even fight on the sea?”

I felt suicidal.  Presupposing the continued omnipotence of the British Navy, the Battle of the Marne had settled the fate of Germany, but if that Navy had proved another illusion the bottom had fallen out of the world.  Not only would Europe be done for, but the United States of America might as well prepare to black the boots of Germany.

When this war is over it is to be hoped that all the censors will be taken out and hanged.  In view of the magnificent account of itself which Kitchener’s Army has given since that miserable day, to say nothing of the fashion in which the British Navy lived up to its best traditions in that Battle of Jutland, it seems nothing short of criminal that the English censor should have permitted the world to hold Great Britain in contempt for twenty-four hours and sink poor France in the slough of despond.  However, he is used to abuse, and presumably does not mind it.