_NOUVELLES DE PARIS._

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE "SOCIETY" PRESS_).

_Paris, Feb., 1919._

Dearest POPPY,--_Que la vie est drôle!_ Who was it said that there are
two great tragedies in life--not getting what you want, and getting
it? I never understood that saying until now. For instance, when I
left London most people I knew seemed to have a feverish desire to
get to Paris. They were ready to move heaven, earth and the Ministry
of Information to obtain the desired passport. They would go to any
lengths to prove how necessary their presence is here during the Peace
Conference.

And now I find my countrymen over here longing with an equal
feverishness to go home again. _Ils s'attristent. Ils s'ennuient._
They have _nostalgie_ in its acutest form. It quite goes to my heart
to hear the pathetic questions they put to newcomers: "How is London
looking? What shows are running now?" And they go on to speak of dear
dirty dark London, its beloved fogs, how adorable is the atrocious
climate of England, in a way that would bring tears to your eyes. Why
_don't_ they go back? you ask, _ma chère_. It's just because they want
to be "in at the death" and say they were here when _la paix était
signée_.

So these poor exiles continue to sacrifice themselves and drift
aimlessly about Paris, making it so full that there's scarcely room
for people like myself--who really _are_ on important work here--to