Now this whole narrative is a lie.  Nothing in it occurred.  If it
     were otherwise it wouldn’t be German.

     Affectionately,

     W.H.P.

     To Mrs. Charles G. Loring

     London, 6 Grosvenor Square. 
     Sunday, September 19, 1915.

     DEAR KITTY: 

You never had a finer autumnal day in the land of the free than this day has been in this old kingdom—­fresh and fair; and so your mother said to herself and me:  “Let’s go out to the Laughlins’ to lunch,” and we went.  There never was a prettier drive.  We found out among other things that you pleased Mrs. Laughlin very much by your letter.  Her garden changes every week or so, and it never was lovelier than it is now.—­Then we came back home and dined alone.  Well, since we can’t have you and Chud and Frank, I don’t care if we do dine alone sometimes for some time to come.  Your mother’s monstrous good company, and sometimes three is a crowd.  And now is a good time to be alone.  London never was so dull or deserted since I’ve known it, nor ever so depressed.  The military (land) operations are not cheerful; the hospitals are all full; I see more wounded soldiers by far than at any previous time; the Zeppelins came somewhere to this island every night for a week—­one of them, on the night of the big raid, was visible from our square for fifteen or twenty minutes—­in general it is a dull and depressing time.  I have thought that since you were determined to run off with a young fellow, you chose a pretty good time to go away.  I’m afraid there’ll be no more of what we call “fun” in this town as long as we stay here.

Worse yet:  in spite of the Coalition Government and everybody’s wish to get on smoothly and to do nothing but to push the war, since Parliament convened there’s been a great row, which doesn’t get less.  The labour men give trouble; people blame the politicians:  Lloyd George is saving the country, say some; Lloyd George ought to be hanged, say others.  Down with Northcliffe!  They seem likely to burn him at the stake—­except those who contend that he has saved the nation.  Some maintain that the cabinet is too big—­twenty-two.  More say that it has no leadership.  If you favour conscription, you are a traitor:  if you don’t favour it, you are pro-German.  It’s the same sort of old quarrel they had before the war, only it is about more subjects.  In fact, nobody seems very clearly to know what it’s about.  Meantime the Government is spending money at a rate that nobody ever dreamed of before.  Three million pounds a day—­some days five million.  The Germans, meantime are taking Russia; the Allies are not taking the Dardanelles; in France the old deadlock continues.  Boston at its worst must be far more cheerful than this.

     Affectionately and with my love to Chud,

     W.H.P.

     To the President