The French Algerian troops and the Indian forces of Great Britain came up for discussion, their bravery, their dislike for trench fighting and intense longing to charge, the inroads the bad weather had made on them during the winter.

One of the officers considered the American press rather pro-German.  The recent American note to Sir Edward Grey and his reply, with the press comments on both, led to this statement.  The possibility of Germany’s intentionally antagonising America was discussed, but not at length.

From the press to the censorship was but a step.  I objected to the English method as having lost us our perspective on the war.

“You allow anything to go through the censor’s office that is not considered dangerous or too explicit,” I said.  “False reports go through on an equality with true ones.  How can America know what to believe?”

It was suggested by some one that the only way to make the censorship more elastic, while retaining its usefulness in protecting military secrets and movements, was to establish such a censorship at the front, where it is easier to know what news would be harmful to give out and what may be printed with safety.

I mentioned what a high official of the admiralty had said to me about the censorship—­that it was “an infernal nuisance, but necessary.”

“But it is not true that messages are misleadingly changed in transmission,” said one of the officers at the table.

I had seen the head of the press-censorship bureau, and was able to repeat what he had said—­that where the cutting out of certain phrases endangered the sense of a message, the words “and” or “the” were occasionally added, that the sense might be kept clear, but that no other additions or changes of meaning were ever made.

Luncheon was over.  We went into the library, and there, consulting the map, Colonel Fitzgerald and General Huguet discussed where I might go that afternoon.  The mist of the morning had turned to rain, and the roads at the front would be very bad.  Besides, it was felt that the “Chief” should give me permission to go to the front, and he had not yet returned.

“How about seeing the Indians?” asked Colonel Fitzgerald, turning from the map.

“I should like it very much.”

The young officer was turned to, and agreed, like a British patriot and gentleman, to show me the Indian villages.  General Huguet offered his car.  The officer got his sheepskin-lined coat, for the weather was cold.

“Thirty shillings,” he said, “and nothing goes through it!”

I examined that coat.  It was smart, substantial, lined throughout with pure white fur, and it had cost seven dollars and a half.