It is a long time since I have heard from you--about three weeks. But I suppose that I will receive a number of letters at once. I do not yet know whether or not you have received the two batches of American Express Company checks, amounting in all to $100.00, which I sent you some time ago. But I am not worrying about it, if the checks are lost it still is possible to recover the money. I sent you two lots of prose and verse recently, and in the envelope containing this letter is a quaint supplement to one of my little sketches--that called “Breakfasts.” It is a letter to Kenton from the little girl who lives in the house by the Fountain, where Farrell and Driscoll and I used to eat every morning in our last station. I showed Solange (an excellent, demure and pious infant) Kenton’s photograph, and told her that he studied French in school. He is supposed to answer in French, tell him--of course his French teacher must help him. I saved the censor trouble by clipping from Solange’s letter the name of the town honoured by her presence, but I guarantee (with St. Anthony’s aid) the safe delivery to her of any epistle he may entrust to me. The town we are in now has no Solange--or has revealed none to me as yet--but in a certain Cafe which I much frequent is Antoine, aged two, who can salute in the French manner, _comme ca_ (illustrated) or in the American manner, _comme ca_, (illustrated). No, not with the left hand! good Heavens, child! _Sacre bleu! nom d’um nom! Quelle dommage!_ Well, if you are going to cry about it, you needn’t salute at all. Here, shut up and drink the dregs of my _vin rouge et sirop_. _Fini, bebe!_ Also there is an admirable child named Jean who has six months. He wears a lavender cloak with a hood attached. His home is a barber shop, the most beautiful and extraordinary barber shop in the world. His father the barber has gone to the Wars--remain madame, grandpere, and M. Biebe. It is a very modern barber shop, with mirror-walls, and powdered soap in silver salt cellars. Grandpere sits by the stove all day long and says that there are many American soldiers in the town. Madame exhibits le petit Jean and asks if it is ever as cold as this in America. I shave with six razors if I desire, and wash in _beaucoup de l’eau chaud_. And Madame deftly swinging le petit Jean over her left shoulder opens a secret drawer under a mirror and proffers me a tiny tube of _fixative_ for my moustache. I have a delightful delusion now and then--I see you walk into the Adjutant’s office, past the Sergeant Major’s desk, and to me. The building in which we work was once a palace--but its inlaid floor never supported a duchess (gold powdered though her hair were, and light her laughter as champagne bubbles) so precious as this fleeting vision of you. JOYCE KILMER.