his memory. Suddenly I realized that America and France each had
something left that war had not destroyed. A young American art
student, who had given up his career for his uniform, and was invalided
back in Paris minus an arm, stood very near me. As he turned to Colonel
House I heard him say:

"Rodin's going is another battle lost."

It was typical of the American quality of which we have cause to
boast--the fineness of heart that is in our young people.


The day of the armistice in France, those of us who are older stood
looking on and realizing that all class distinctions, all race, age, and
pursuits, had been wiped off the map. People were just people. There
was a complete abandon. I am not a young woman, but I was caught up by
the fury of the crowd, and swept along singing, laughing, weeping.
Young soldiers passing would reach out to touch my hand, sometimes to
kiss me.

That night I believed that the war had broken down many of our barriers;
that all foolish customs had died; that the terrific price paid in human
blood and human suffering had at least left a world honest with itself,
simple and ready for good comradeship; that men were measured by
manliness and women by ideals. It was a part of the armistice day
fervor, but I believed it.

And then I came home and went to Newport.