ington House. "Sir Gilbert," speaks the attendant in resplendent livery. And I find myself in a stately English room. There, down the length of the red velvet carpet beneath the glow of a red shaded electric lamp, a man with very quiet eyes is rising from his chair. "Do you know where you are?" he asks with a smile, glancing at the letter of introduction on his desk that tells of my mission. "This," he says, "is the headquarters of the English government's press bureau for the war and I am in charge of the American publicity." Who cares for Lord Northcliffe now! Or even the King of England! Of all the inhabitants of this land, here was the man a journalist would wish to meet. The man who has written "The Seats of the Mighty" sits in them. From his desk here in the red room he can touch the button that will open all the right doors to me. He can't do it immediately, in war time. One has to make sure first. I must come often to Wellington House. There are days when we talk of many things, of life and of New York. He is less and less of a formal Englishman. His title is slipping away. He is beginning to be just Gilbert Parker, who might have belonged to the Authors' League up on Forty-second Street. I half suspect he does. "I do know my America rather well," he says at length. "I married a girl from Fifty-seventh Street. And I have a brother who lives in St. Paul."
It is the way his voice thrills on "my America." I am sure any American correspondent hearing it would have been ready even in the fall of 1916 to
