down to us, a place they called Hades, where everything conceivable that was frightful and awful should happen. The Christians called it Hell.
But nobody had been there. And there were those in very modern days who said in their superior wisdom that it could not be, that it did not exist. Now how are we all confounded! For it is here and now. The Lady with the Decoration has seen it. Look, I say, in her eyes.
For that is where you will find out. She does not talk of what she has been through.
"My friend Eleanor Warrender," Lady Randolph Churchill told me, "has been under shell-fire for three years, nursing at hospitals all along the front from Furnes to the Vosges Mountains. Sometimes she has spent days with her wounded in dark cellars where they had to take refuge from the bombs that came like hail—and the cellars were infested with rats."
Eleanor Warrender, when I saw her, came into the Ladies' Empire Club at 67 Grosvenor Street, London.
High-bred, tall, and slender, she wore the severe tailor-made suit in which you expect an Englishwoman to be attired. In the buttonhole of her left coat-lapel there was a dark silk ribbon striped in a contrasting colour from which hung a small bronze Maltese cross. It is the Croix de Guerre bestowed on her by the French Government for "conspicuous bravery and gallant service at the front." She dropped easily on a chintz-covered lounge before the
