ecure who will give her facilities in life. She, also, is
posing for a 'lady' and 'a virtuous woman,' and an ardent war worker.

All these parasites are the product of the war, though probably they
always existed, but the war has been their glorious chance. There is a
new verb in America, Maurice says--"To war work"--It means to get to
Paris, and have a splendid time.

Their _toupe_ is surprising! To hear this one talk one would think she
ruled all the politics of the allies, and directed each General.

* * * * *

Are men fools?--Yes, imbeciles--they cannot see the wiles of woman.
Perhaps I could not when I was a human male whom they could love!

Love?--did I say love?

Is there such a thing?--or is it only a sex excitement for the
moment!--That at all events is the sum of what these creatures know.

Do they ever think?--I mean beyond planning some fresh adventure for
themselves, or how to secure some fresh benefit.

I cannot now understand how a man ever marries one of them, gives his
name and his honour into such precarious keeping. Once I suppose I
should have been as easy a prey as the rest. But not _now_--I have too
much time to think, I fear. I seem to find some ulterior motive in
whatever people say or do.

To-day another American lunched with me, a bright girl, an heiress of the
breezy, jolly kind, a good sort before the war, whom I danced with
often. She told me quite naturally that she had a German prisoner's
thigh bone being polished into an umbrella handle--She had assisted at
the amputation--and the man had afterwards died--"A really cute
souvenir," she assured me it was going to be!

Are we all mad--?

No wonder the finest and best "go West."--Will they come again, souls of
a new race, when all these putrid beings have become extinguished by
time? I hope so to God....

These French women enjoy their crepe veils--and their high-heeled shoes,
and their short black skirts, even a cousin is near enough for the
trappings of woe.--Can any of us feel woe now?--I think not....

Maurice has his uses--Were I a man once more I should despise
Maurice--He is so good a creature, such a devoted hanger on of the very
rich--and faithful too. Does he not pander to my every fancy, and
procure me whatever I momentarily desire?

How much better if I had been killed outright! I loathe myself and all
the world.

* * * * *

Once--before the war--the