pillow with the sense of one more day safely done.
The long steel lines I have passed, I cannot forget. "Who goes there?" These that speak with authority are men with pistols in their belts and swords at their sides. And there are rows of them, O rows and rows of them along the way to the front. See the cold glitter of them! I still look nervously first over one shoulder and then over the other. This morning at breakfast a waiter only drops a fork. And I jump at the sound as if a shot had been fired. You know the feeling something's going to catch you if you don't watch out. Well, you have it like that for a long time after you've been in the war zone. Will it be a submarine or a Zeppelin or a khaki clad line of steel?
It was on a summer's day in 1916 that I rushed into the office of the Pictorial Review. "Look!" I exclaimed excitedly to the editor at his desk. "See the message in the sky written in letters of blood above the battlefields of Europe! There it is, the promise of freedom for women!"
He brushed aside the magazine "lay-out" before him, and lifted his eyes to the horizon of the world. And he too saw. Among the feminists ot New York he has been known as the man with the vision. "Yes," he agreed, "you are right. It is the wonder that is coming. Will you go over there and find out just what this terrible cataclysm of civilisation means to the woman's cause?"
And he handed me my European commission. The next morning when I applied for my passport
