The Servians are a highly intelligent and thoughtful race. The young officers in the streets are not of the ogling, giggling genus one knows so well in Germany, France, and Italy, but though smarter in appearance than either nation, they are serious, polite, and gentlemanly to a degree. The King, when speaking to me of military matters, pointed out a curious fact, namely, that so intelligent was the average Servian recruit that in six months he usually learnt what in France took him eighteen months. In feminine circles it struck me that there was a great extravagance in dress. I saw the very latest Paris hats and smart, well-cut gowns, which bore evidence of the expensive _couturière_ worn by the wives of struggling officials, and I learnt that about ten pounds was no uncommon price for a hat. All classes seem to vie with each other to dress well, and in the brilliant salons at night one sees some of the smartest gowns in Europe. As regards cooking, I fear I cannot say very much that is favourable. That at the Grand is decidedly poor, save perhaps the dishes of delicious sterlet; and of the various restaurants I tried, the only one which reached excellence was that kept by an Italian, one Perolo, who was for many years chef to King Milan. There one can dine well—if one knows what to order. The younger diplomatists dine there in a room together, entrance to which is forbidden, save to a few chosen ones. The diplomatic circle do a good deal of entertaining. The British Minister and his wife give large dinner-parties every Tuesday, which are very delightful functions; while each Thursday afternoon Mrs. Whitehead—who is a very charming hostess—is at home. The Foreign Office have certainly been happy in their choice of Mr. Whitehead to fulfil the very difficult and onerous task of renewing diplomatic relations, for he is a skilled diplomatist, and has been for many years in St. Petersburg, Brussels, Tokio, Constantinople, and Berlin, where he was, until recently, Councillor of Embassy. He also speaks Russian. The Legation is one of the most tasteful houses in Belgrade, and is filled with highly interesting collections from Japan. The German Minister, Prince Max Ratibor, with his wife and stepdaughter, the young Princess Taxis, also give a good many smart entertainments. The capital is, of course, a hotbed of political intrigue, and all foreigners arriving are suspected of being secret agents. They are watched, their correspondence often opened, and their business in Belgrade thoroughly investigated and reported upon. At first the stranger resents this kind of thing. On my arrival I found myself constantly watched, but as soon as it was known who and what I was, the surveillance ceased. I mentioned the matter to one of the high police officials, whereupon he explained that in Belgrade alone he held a list of no fewer than 113 known secret agents of Austria! “We therefore keep secret agents for our own protection. Can you blame us?” he asked.