The representatives of the various countries had come expecting to find an international court of justice, where a set of supermen would rearrange the earth, settle all disputes, terminate all grievances, and make a new world-map along fair ethnological and national lines. Yet nobody knew how this was to be done. The little nations looked to the big, but the big were too much concerned with their own affairs, and with the division of the spoils, to be able suddenly to convert themselves into impartial judges. Loyalty to their own countries overshadowed their interest in the general good. There was just so much benefit to be divided, and in the struggle of everyone to secure a larger share for himself, many failed to get anything, and almost nothing was left for the common good. Nearly all were scheming to weaken the arch-enemy, Germany, by despoiling her of territory and creating strong safeguards around her. The best comparison that comes to my mind is that of a legal contest over the terms of a will disposing of a large estate. All the possible heirs were here in Paris: the legitimate, the illegitimate, and such posthumous children as Czecho-Slovakia and Poland were crowding into court. Five trustees had, indeed, been appointed to effect a just division--the representatives of Great Britain, France, Italy, Japan, and the United States--but these, with the exception of America, were themselves claimants, and the pleas were so conflicting that no human genius, or group of them, could have rendered a decision to the satisfaction of all. President Wilson realized this, and partly because of it proposed a League of Nations as a permanent court to settle what could not be settled at the Peace Conference. My observations were made from an advantageous position. The hopes and ambitions of the various powers were centred in President Wilson; their representatives were courting him and his friends, and as I had, at the request of the United States commissioners, joined William H. Buckler in studying the Turkish problem, my rooms at the hotel were soon transformed into a sort of office and general meeting-place for some of the most interesting figures at the Conference. Kerenski was one of these. He was not apparently the consumptive figure pictured by the daily press; on the contrary, he was a burly man with a thick neck and a mighty voice. When he pleaded his case, he waxed so eloquent, and his tones reached such a pitch, that I had to close the windows for fear outsiders might think there was a fight in my rooms.