other arm twitched a horrible accompaniment as he indicated my direction!
Those are brave men who are dying on all the battlefields for their native lands. But oh, the bravery of these men who must live for their countries! These who have lost their eyes and their arms and their legs are as common over here as, why, as, say, men with brown hair. And these are terrible enough. But the men who have lost their faces! So long as they shall live, in every one's eyes into which they look, they must see a shudder of horror reflecting as in a looking glass their old agony. God in Heaven pity the men who have lost their faces! The greatest sculptors in the world are busy to-day making faces to be fastened on.
Like this you've got to go through Europe these days with a sob in the throat. I turn to the difficult, details of living for relief from the awful drama of existence. In Paris there is the nicest United States ambassador that ever was sent in a black frock coat to represent his country abroad. In the course of my travels there are embassies I have met who are about as useful to the wayfaring American in a foreign land as a Rogers plaster group on a parlour table. But you arrive at Mr. Sharpe's embassy in the Rue de Chaillot and it doesn't matter at all if it happens to be perhaps 4:33 and his reception hour closed at, say, 4:31. He says, "Come right in." Yes, he talks like that, not at all in the tone of royalty. "When'd you get in town?" he asks as genially as
