out, debated, discussed, negotiated.  Surely the President tried to reach peace—­tried as hard and as long as the people would allow him.  The Germans argued away time with him while they got their submarine fleet built.  Then they carried out the programme they had always had in mind and had never thought of abandoning.  Now they wish to gain more time, to slacken the efforts of the Allies, if possible to separate them by asking for “discussions”—­peace by “negotiation.”  When you are about to kill the robber, he cries out, “For God’s sake, let’s discuss the question between us.  We can come to terms.”—­Now here’s where the danger comes from the philosophical pacifist—­from any man who does not clearly understand the nature of the war and of the enemy.  To discuss the difference between us is so very reasonable in sound—­so very reasonable in fact if there were a discussable difference.  It is a programme that would always be in order except with a burglar or a robber.

     The yet imperfect understanding of the war and of the nature of the
     German in the United States, especially at Washington—­more
     especially in the White House—­herein lies the danger.

...  This little rest down here is a success.  The weather is a disappointment—­windy and cold.  But to be away from London and away from folks—­that’s much.  Shoecraft is very good[66].  He sends us next to nothing.  Almost all we’ve got is an invitation to lunch with Their Majesties and they’ve been good enough to put that off.  It’s a far-off country, very fine, I’m sure in summer, and with most beautiful golf links.  The hill is now so windy that no sane man can play there.

     We’re enjoying the mere quiet.  And your mother is quite well again.

     Affectionately,

     W.H.P.

     To Mrs. Charles G. Loring
     St. Ives, Cornwall,
     March 10, 1918.

     DEAR KITTY: 

A week here.  No news.  Shoecraft says we’ve missed nothing in London.  What we came for we’ve got:  your mother’s quite well.  She climbs these high hills quite spryly.  We’ve had a remarkable week in this respect—­we haven’t carried on a conversation with any human being but ourselves.  I don’t think any such thing has ever happened before.  I can stand a week, perhaps a fortnight of this now.  But I don’t care for it for any long period.  At the bottom of this high and steep hill is the quaintest little town I ever saw.  There are some streets so narrow that when a donkey cart comes along the urchins all have to run to the next corner or into doors.  There is no sidewalk, of course; and the donkey cart takes the whole room between the houses.  Artists take to the town, and they have funny little studios down by the water front in tiny houses built of stone in pieces big enough to construct a tidewater front.  Imagine stone walls made of stone, each weighing tons, built into little