Tom went into a rage. "Why do you insist on comparing yourself with
that little -----!" The word he used was an ugly one. I did not speak
to him again until after we had passed the government inspectors.


I shall never forget my first day in London, the old, quiet city where
everybody seemed so comfortable and easy-going. There was no show, no
pretense. The people in the shops and on the street bore the earmarks
of thrift. I understood where New England got its spirit.

The first morning at the Alexandra Hotel, Tom fell naturally into the
European habit of having coffee and fruit and a roll brought to his bed.
I wanted to go down to the dining room. My husband said it was not done
and I would be lonesome. The days of ranch life had taught me to get up
with the chickens. But it was not done in London. The second morning
the early sun was too much for me. I dressed, left the hotel, and
walked for several hours before a perfect servant brought shining plates
and marmalade, fruit and coffee to my big husky football player's
bedside. I have lived many years in Europe, but I have never grown used
to having breakfast brought to my room.

That second rainy morning Tom left me alone with the promise of being
back for luncheon. I picked up a London morning paper and glanced at
the personal column. I have read it every day since when I could get
hold of the London Times. All of human nature and the ups and downs of
man are there, from secondhand lace to the mortgaged jewels of
broken-down nobility, from sporting games and tickets for sale to
relatives wanted, and those mysterious, suggestive, unsigned messages
from home or to home. I read the news of the war. We in America did