If, for any reason, I should die suddenly just now, and you had my brain dissected, you would find, I am sure, that at least one half was a mass of figures, which, if you studied, you would find was the result of my constant reducing gallons to litres, and miles to kilometres, and my endeavoring to figure out without measuring in the tank, how much essence remains. Also you would find "essence," where to get it, how much to pay for it,--"shall we stop here and buy some, or chance it till we get home?" written all over my gray matter. I am at present entirely responsible for the car, and, delightful as that should sound to you, it is a privilege not entirely free from care. The question of getting gasoline alone, in these days, is hard enough. Then I have to keep an account of just what the car costs per day, and also to keep it in good shape, for it is impossible to get mechanics these times. They are all under the Government. We have for the car (which, by the bye, we named "Nilly," for the other car being "Willy," and this one having come over as I told you without anything--absolutely NIL) a small hole in the wall off a peculiar alleyway, which is known over here as a "remise." It is just big enough to get into, and is fairly difficult to navigate, for it faces a cement wall, and one has to back in and turn just so, or else hit the wall. But at the rate Rootie is going now, there will not be much wall left to trouble us soon! [Illustration: Esther and Marjorie] I have enjoyed the rides out and back with Mrs. Shurtleff ever so much in one way, for it gives me a chance to have her all to myself, and that is something that few people can have with Mrs. Shurtleff. We have had some bully talks. One day I went in to the hospital,--which is the American Hospital, by the way, not connected with the American Ambulance out there, but a hospital for Americans sick over here, and is a model in many ways. I went all over it, and, incidentally, met Mrs. Robert W. Service, the wife of the man who wrote those poems about Western life, very much in Kipling's style. Daddy has them. "The Cremation of Sam Magee" is one of the best. He has just published "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,"--war poems, needless to say. Well, Mrs. Service was at the hospital, with two kids, twins, eight weeks old, dear little things. She herself was very sweet and rather pathetic, I thought, trying to do everything in the American way, although she is really a French woman. I was impressed with the hospital and the nurses, and it gave me a nice, secure feeling that, if I was ever sick, I could be so in the good American way, even way over here.