so
passionately upheld by all that is best in our respective nations,
have both of them nothing to lose from its temperate statement. Great
Britain, in spite of our national habit of running ourselves down, is
not, indeed, supporting the League of Nations from any sense at all of
lost prestige or weakened power, but from an idealism no less hopeful
and insistent than that of America, coupled with a loathing of war no
less strong.

_The League of Nations!_--A year ago how many of us had given any
serious thought to what was then a phrase, a dream, on which in the
dark days of last spring it seemed a mere waste of time to dwell? And
yet, week by week, since the New Year began, the dream has been slowly
taking to itself body and form.

On the very day (January 25th) when the League of Nations resolution
was passed at the Paris Conference, I happened to spend an interesting
hour in President Wilson's company, at the Villa Murat. Mrs. Wilson,
whose gentle kindness and courtesy were very widely appreciated in
Paris, had asked me to come in at six o'clock, and await the
President's return from the Conference. I found her with five or six
visitors round her, members of the Murat family, come to pay a visit
to the illustrious guest to whom they had lent their house--the
Princesse Murat, talking fluent English, her son in uniform, her
widowed daughter and two delicious little children. In little more
than five minutes, the President came in, and the beautiful room made
a rich setting for an interesting scene. He entered, radiant, and with
his first words, standing in our midst, told us that the Conference
had just passed the League of Nations resolution. The two tiny
children approached him, the little girl curtseyed to him, the little
boy kissed his hand; and then they vanished, to remember, perhaps,
fifty years hence, the dim figure of a tall and smiling man, whom they
saw on a day marked in history.

The President took his seat as the centre of our small circle. I am
not going to betray the confidence of what was a private visit, but
general impressions are not, I think, forbidden. I still seem to see
the Princesse Murat opposite me, in black, her fingers playing with
her pearls as she talked; the French officer with folded arms beside
her; next to him the young widowed lady, whose name I did not catch,
then Mrs. Wilson, with the intelligent face of her secretary, Miss
Benham, in the background, and between myself and Prin