mond eyes and long mustache. His cheek
bones were high and his jaw square and cruel. He settled into his
coat-collar the way a cat shortens its neck when it purrs. He, too, was
purring, from gratification, perhaps, at having his portrait painted;
but, wholly untrustworthy himself, he distrusted the world and held
himself ready to strike.

Another portrait was of a man who might have been of peasant origin. An
inky black beard hid the lower part of his face, but his nose was blunt
and pugnacious, and his eyes were like black shoe-buttons sewn close
together. He stuck out his stomach importantly, and the care with which
his uniform and decorations were painted strengthened the impression
that he had made his career himself and set the highest value on the
insignia that stood for his accomplishment.

Well, I made up characters to fit the portraits, and the time went on.
There were three entrances to the room, through which aides and
orderlies were constantly appearing and disappearing. The room filled up
with people and smelt of oiled leather and smoke. The women did not move
from their chairs, but the men got up and stood about, talking in
groups. I began to feel that I had known these captains and majors and
lieutenants all my life. They looked at me curiously, and if they knew
Mr. Douglas they asked to be presented to me.

"How do you like Russia?"

They spoke French. I looked at Mr. Douglas and smiled.

"Very much."

They were pleased.

"Ah, you do? That is good. Russia is a wonderful country and its
resources are endless. But it is war-time. You should see Russia in
peace-time. There is no country in the world where one amuses one's self
so well as in Russia. But first we must beat the Germans."

They all begin that way, and then branch out into their particular line
of conversation.

There was a woman near me, her mourning veil thrown back, disclosing a
death-like face. Her features were pinched, and her pale lips were
pressed tightly together in suffering. She had been waiting surely three
hours since sending in her card, and all that time she had scarcely
moved. Sometimes I forgot her, and then my eyes would fall on her and I
wondered how I could see anybody else in the room. In comparison to her
all the others seemed fussy or melodramatic or false in some way.
Suffering was condensed in her. It flowed through her body. It settled
in the shadows of her face and clothed her in black. Her gloved hands
pre