It was characteristic of Her Majesty that she put an American woman—­a very nervous American woman—­at her ease at once, that she showed that American woman the various departments of her Needlework Guild under way, and that she conveyed, in every word she said, a deep feeling of friendship for America and her assistance to Belgium in this crisis.

Although our ambassadors are still accredited to the Court of St. James’s, the old palace has ceased to be the royal residence.  The King still holds there his levees, to which only gentlemen are admitted.  But the formal Drawing Rooms are held at Buckingham Palace.  To those who have seen St. James’s during a levee, or to those London tourists who have watched the Scots Guards, or the Coldstream or the Grenadiers, preceded by a splendid band, swinging into the old Friary Court to perform the impressive ceremony of changing guard, the change in these days of war is most amazing.  Friary Court is guarded by London policemen, and filled with great vans piled high with garments and supplies for the front—­that front where the Coldstream and the Grenadiers and the others, shorn of their magnificence, are waiting grimly in muddy trenches or leading charges to victory—­or the Roll of Honour.  Under the winter sky of London the crenelated towers and brick walls of the old palace give little indication of the former grandeur of this most historic of England’s palaces, built on the site of an old leper hospital and still retaining the name of the saint to whom that hospital was dedicated.

There had been a shower just before I arrived; and, although it was February, there was already a hint of spring in the air.  The sun came out, drying the roads in the park close by, and shining brightly on the lovely English grass, green even then with the green of June at home.  Riders, caught in the shower and standing by the sheltered sides of trees for protection, took again to the bridle paths.  The hollows of Friary Court were pools where birds were splashing.  As I got out of my car a Boy Scout emerged from the palace and carried a large parcel to a waiting van.

“Do you want the Q.M.N.G.?” said a tall policeman.

This, being interpreted, I was given to understand was Queen Mary’s Needlework Guild.

Later on, when I was taken to Buckingham Palace to write my name in the Queen’s book, which is etiquette after a presentation, there was all the formality the visit to St. James’s had lacked—­the drive into the inclosure, where the guard was changing, the stately footmen, the great book with its pages containing the dignitaries and great people of all the earth.

But the Boy Scout and the policeman had restored my failing courage that day at St. James’s Palace.  Except for a tendency to breathe at twice my normal rate as the Queen entered the room I felt almost calm.

As she advanced toward us, stopping to speak cordially to the various ladies who are carrying on the work of the Guild for her, I had an opportunity to see this royal woman who has suffered so grossly from the camera.