I am wondering if I shall do all the queer things that I am now doing, when I get home. I take my fork and knife off my plate every course and lay them on the tablecloth. I "swab" (it's the only word) my plate with a piece of bread, to get all the gravy. I eat bread by the yard (literally), while I never touch it at home. You would laugh to hear what we have for meals, and yet they are delicious,--mostly vegetables, a little meat, very well done, and with delicious sauce, and never anything but cheese and confitures for dessert. Although the tea-shops are all open, you can notice a slight difference in their cakes. They no longer have frosting in the real sense of the word, but are covered with cream or paste or powdered sugar. The fillings are not as sweet as they once were, but they are still delicious. Do you suppose I will want white wine with luncheon and red with dinner, when I get back? I can't get along without it over here. It is so funny when you once begin to think it over. It does make me tired when I hear people say that living in Paris in war-time "is very different," and then heave a sigh. Of course, I don't know what it is like here in peace-times, but I do know that we are all very comfortable. We all have luxuries, and there are wonderfully few restrictions, I think. You should hear Mr. Ayrault--who has just come back from a four months' tour of inspection of prison camps in Germany--talk. He says we don't know what war means here, compared with Germany, where everything is distributed by cards,--everything except goose, and that, as a result, is prohibitively high. He is most interesting in his accounts of Germany. I wish I could write you all, but I don't suppose Mr. Censor would approve. By the bye, of all my letters from America, only one from C. Morss has ever been opened. In one of your letters you spoke of fighting the "White Rats." I don't care much for the idea. Don't, for goodness' sake, get stabbed in the back or poisoned by a lot of bum vaudeville artists! I speak of stabbing and such. If you hear of a young American being killed by a bicycle over here, you may be sure that it is I, and it will be such an ignominious death. A taxicab I could bear, but I seem fated to be killed by a bicycle. They don't use horns here, and just go whizzing by. I have just avoided two already. Spring seems to be trying hard to get here,--not too successful so far in its attempts, but there is some green grass in the gardens, and on Sundays the Punch and Judys and merry-go-rounds are open on the Champs Élysées.