I shall never forget the expression of disappointment with which Briand and Count Aupin greeted this announcement. It meant that their scheme must be abandoned and that Briand must still longer postpone the overthrow of Clemenceau. Much of what was passing behind the scenes at the Conference it would not be proper for me to tell. Part of that is the story of “The Passing of the Third-Floor Front,” when the meetings of the American Commissioners were transferred from Colonel House’s room on the third floor of the Crillon to Secretary Lansing’s rooms on the first floor. But there is an anecdote that I do venture to repeat because it throws a light on the character and careful methods of Lloyd George. Even the British Premier was keen to gain favour with those close to President Wilson, and one night he invited to dine with him Admiral Cary T. Grayson, whom he knew to be not only Mr. Wilson’s physician, but one of his personal confidants as well. Now, Grayson was a Southerner of the Southerners; he was born in Virginia’s Culpepper County, and studied at William and Mary College. Consequently, he pricked up his ears when Lloyd George’s entire table conversation confined itself to that America which lies south of Mason-and-Dixon’s line. The Premier showed himself specially familiar with the career of Stonewall Jackson, for whom he professed a warm admiration. Finally, the dinner ended, Mr. Lloyd George’s niece went to the piano, and sang--American Southern melodies! This was too much for Grayson. “How is it,” he said, “that you all have such an intimate knowledge of my part of America?” Perhaps this direct query took the Premier by surprise. Anyhow, he confessed: “Well, you see I have just finished reading Henderson’s ‘Life of Stonewall Jackson.’” Grayson’s response was in the good old American fashion: “My dear sir, no matter what office you run for, you’ll have my vote!” There was one interlude to my activities in Paris that should be mentioned if only for the sake of the stir it created back home. This was my speech at Coblenz, when I told the American soldiers there that another war impended. It was in May of 1919 that we took a trip to the occupied territory and visited Coblenz, Cologne, and Wiesbaden. I remember that we were at first much impressed by the unbending dignity of the young captain who was our escort until, one day, we stopped at Treves for lunch. We had just seated ourselves when a woman’s voice called out: “Why, hello Pinky!” We all turned round, but the Captain jumped. He had red hair, and the woman who greeted him by the nickname that his hair had won him before he achieved his military dignity was Peggy Shaw, of New York, who soon showed us her soldiers’ theatre and rest-room in a barn where she served lemonade out of buckets to the Army of Occupation. Thenceforward, the Captain was “Pinky” to us all.