I dined that night with a very old friend of mine, Count Minotto, and met the first woman of real beauty that I have seen since I came here. Mrs. Minotto walked into the room with long white arms and a transparently pale face; her dark hair brushed in waves off her forehead was knotted loosely at the back of her neck, and her beautiful eyes glowed with welcome. We talked _a trois_ for three hours and before going away she took me into her night nursery. The nurse woke up, but her lady told her not to move, and after looking at a handsome little boy, she glided to the side of a white cradle. Very tall, in a clinging black crepe dress, I was struck by the beauty of her attitude, and the tenderness of her expression as, leaning across the cot, she removed the coverlet for me to see her little sleeping baby. I lectured the next night to the biggest and most intelligent audience I had faced since Boston, and when it was over people came on to the stage to congratulate me and ask for my autograph. On the morning of the 22nd, having asked to see the big Military Hospital, a friend of Mr. Horton's--who had been his secretary during his Foreign Office work in Paris--took us out to see the Speedway Hospital. We had a long and adventurous drive, skidding in circles on the ice, although we went at an almost funereal pace. Puffs of steam came up from my feet which seemed to emerge from a furnace. Mr. Horton insisted on stopping at a garage for fear the car would catch fire, and our chauffeur in a rough-and-ready manner poured cans of water down the window spaces to do what he could to cool the car. On arriving at the hospital we were greeted by interviewers and doctors (the latter in khaki),--we had taken with us Miss Allard, a lady reporter of first rate intelligence and fine manners,--and we started to walk round. The military doctor wanted naturally enough to show me the hospital, which I should imagine to be the largest and most perfectly equipped in the world. This solid building extends for over half a mile, and is several storeys high; but I wanted to see the patients, and I loathe long passages and operating paraphernalia. With difficulty I was finally permitted to see the wounded. It is difficult to make conversation with tired men acclimatized to pain and bed, but I was glad to meet and talk to them. I have a feeling, which may be wrong, that they are not getting the attention they deserve in this country of money and movies, but the hospital was magnificent, and there at any rate, they are treated with efficiency and understanding. Perhaps I am not competent to judge, but from what I have observed, the men who fought in the war--many of whom have been either permanently disabled or financially handicapped--are in danger of being forgotten, not by the Government either in the States or any other part of the world, but by the private individual.