“We do not require women for this work,” was the dogmatic reply; which also, of course, ignored the _principle_ involved in such official rigidity. But with the unfailing courtesy which the best Englishman never denies to the women whose “interference” he most resents, “I hope you made our position clear to your friends the Turks. Those who serve our Government have always done so of their own free-will. _That is why we are served so well!_” * * * * * I approached this question from another angle at Lausanne. As I have already pointed out, and illustrated from experience in an earlier chapter, it is most advisable, if not essential, that the Ambassador, like other great “Personages,” should employ agents to “try out” the petty “first steps” of any change in policy. I was told by way of reply, that “the first qualification for ‘entering diplomacy’ is to be twenty-one!” This, of course, excludes a woman over thirty; a fact that may serve for answer to many bitter attacks upon my “Disadvantage of Being a Woman.” A man of threescore is seldom considered too old for diplomacy; a woman of thirty-five is fourteen years beyond the limit. “What would you do with the old men?” I was asked. “Teach them golf,” was my prompt retort. * * * * * At the Front in a French uniform, speaking French to my own compatriots, I was always unwilling to confess my nationality. So long as they thought I was French, they forgot the lady, and made a friend of the woman! Shedding their “own” uniform, as it were, they “let go” in homage and devotion; giving, being, and appealing for _themselves_. But the moment it came out that I was English, the open oyster closed down and hid its pearl. From these spruce, upright, and tightly-buttoned uniforms I could never get through the politeness. As an interpreter in the Guards once explained it: “When one of your Generals asks me to buy him a _Vie Parisienne_, he never forgets to add, ‘but don’t give it to me in front of my officers.’” It must be the same with women. The Englishman will allow a _French_ woman to “have a peep” at his soul. To his compatriot he offers his dignity and his prestige—which are no better than a bag of bones! What I have always known, has been brought home more forcibly than ever during this trip. In matrimony, at his office, and in the home, the Englishman must be master. We can, if we must, accept a _good_ master. Who will help us against the _bad_? Do the _Laws_ of England? It sometimes seems indiscreet for an Englishwoman to visit the British Embassies in foreign capitals, but I rarely omit to call on the French; and there are, of course, certain advantages, under some circumstances, in a twin-nationality. I have been invited to their Christmas lunch by General and Madame Pellé.