there, and "thees" and "thous" abound in the conversation, which
runs on investments, the new English loan, banking accounts in
London, the rent moratorium in Paris, and the war. It is said that
every German is a critic of war. But so is every Frenchman a critic of
war. The criticism I now hear is the best spoken criticism, utterly
impartial, that I have heard.

"In sum," says the grey-headed stockbroker, "there disengages
itself from the totality of the facts an impression, tolerably clear, that
all goes very well on the West front."

Which is reassuring. But the old lady, invincible after seven-and-a-
half decades spent in the hard acquirement of wisdom, will not be
reassured. She is not alarmed, but she will not be reassured. She
treats the two men with affectionate malice as children. She knows
that "those birds"--that is to say, the Germans--will never be beaten,
because they are for ever capable of inventing some new trick.

She will not sit still. A bit of talk, and she runs off with the agility
of a girl to survey her household; then returns and cuts into the
discussion.

"If you are coming to lunch, Bennett," she says, "come before
Monday, because on Monday my cook takes herself away, and as
for the new one, I should dare to say nothing. . . . You don't know,
Bennett, you don't know, that at a given moment it was impossible
to buy salt. I mean, they sold it to you unwillingly, in little screws of
paper. It was impossible to get enough. Figure that to yourself, you
from London! As for chicory for the morning cafe-au-lait, it existed
not. Gold could not buy it."