. Great were the
songs and dances, and great was the amount of liquid put away. I was
lifted downstairs and laid out beside the table, and the lads
presented me with a magnificent silver ash-tray.

Towards the end of January, I was allowed out and about again, and I
went up to G.H.Q. to paint the Q.M.G., who put me up in his chateau. I
painted him, and also did some work down at "Bumpherie," including a
drawing of Lieutenant Brooks, who took the most wonderful official
photographs during the war, often at great personal risk. I remember a
story that went round in 1917, in which there was not a word of truth,
but it was amusing. A terrible-looking Tommy stopped Brooks in the
Street of the Three Pebbles and said: "Say, guv'ner, when are you
going to give me me photo?" "What photo? Who are you?" said Brooks.
"Blimy," said the Tommy, "you don't know me, and me the bloke as was
killed going over the top for you!"

I now got a reminder that I was due in Paris to paint the Peace
Conference. The whole thing had gone from my mind. I afterwards found
the letter, which I apparently had received and read, dated December,
telling me to go to Paris, but I was so sick I did not realise what it
was about. I realised now right enough, so I packed my bag and breezed
away to Paris, and found that great family gathering, the Peace (p. 100)
Conference, and the life of the "Astoria" and the "Majestic" commenced
for me.

The great family really was composed of a number of little families.
Mine consisted of Lord Riddell, George Mair, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud
Jackson, D.S.O., George Adam, Sidney Dark and Gordon Knox, and great
were the meetings at Foucquet's before lunch.

For the most part, my life consisted now of painting portraits at the
"Astoria," or attending the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay." During
these I did little drawings of the delegates. For a seat I was usually
perched up on a window-sill. It was very amusing to sit there and
listen to Clemenceau--"Le Tigre"--putting the fear of death into the
delegates of the smaller nations if they talked too long. Apparently,
the smaller the nation he represented, the more the delegate felt it
incumbent on himself to talk, but after a while, Clemenceau, with the
grey gloves whirling about, would shout him down.

President Wilson occasionally rose and spoke of love and forgiveness.
Lloyd George just went on working, his secretaries constantly rushing
up to him, whispering and depart