and long black corridors. Finally he opened a room on the fourth floor, and it looked clean, and I said I'd stay. I went down to get my things and to thank Mr. Baxter for being so kind. I should have been so forlorn all alone. So he drove off to the Ambulance Headquarters. I could hear the taxi going off down the street and the "jardinière" tumbling over my bags. I do think American men are wonderful! We climbed again to this eyrie and he wished me "bon soir." Again I was so glad for French because, as he was turning down my bed,--I told him that "je viens de venir d'Amérique," and that I did not wish "que l'on me réveille." He was quite genial and said good-night all over again. My room is the queerest of the queer. There is a worn red carpet with rainbow figures, the paper is green and yellow striped--mild, but incontestably green and yellow. The ceiling is slanted and I have one dormer window. There is a marble mantelpiece and a huge bed; also a marble washstand, which I feel must be a bit of ornamentation looted from Napoleon's tomb. I looked out of the window, but it's perfectly black. There may be a blank wall six inches away, or a court or a forest of trees or almost anything for all I can see. I stood in the middle of the room with my hands on my hips and looked around and smiled. There was my own fur coat which is Northampton to me, and my black sweater which is Bailey's, and my suitcases and myself--all of us dropped into this garret room. When I went to lay my weary--oh, so weary--bones between the sheets, I found the latter to be fashioned apparently out of heavy canvas. It was like nestling down between two jibs of the good swordfisher, "Edmund Black." The pillow is enormous and uncompromising--my own little baby pillow Mrs. Bigelow put in her trunk for me. Still, as I describe them, they look very good to me and I think I'll go back to them. It is getting light, I think, and pouring rain, I'll try looking out again. Tuesday.