at we read in the Press nowadays.

* * * * *

_NOUVELLES DE PARIS._

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE "SOCIETY" PRESS_).

_Paris, Feb., 1919._

Dearest POPPY,--_Que la vie est drole!_ 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 chere_. It's just because they want
to be "in at the death" and say they were here when _la paix etait
signee_.

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
breathe.

Imagine! I met Eleanor Dashgood on the Boulevard Haussmann to-day,
descending from her car with her two poms yapping at her heels,
just as if she were _chez elle_. I really felt like saying something
pointed; but, after all, my only comment was, "My dear, what a
_strange_ lot of people one meets in Paris nowadays!"

"Yes, dearest," she said, "that just occurred to me, too." I'm
wondering now what the creature meant. Believe me, my dear, that
woman has illegally wangled a passport out of the authorities by
representing herself as her husband's typist--he's got a diplomatic
passport, you know. I inquired if the maid she had brought with
her had turned into a typist, too, to say nothing of the poms. The
_toupet_ of some people!

And, of course, all this unnecessary rabble is helping to make
everything _horriblement cher_. The price of things makes one's hair
stand on end like the quills of the fretful porcupine. I can assure
you that _le mo