We hurried to the studio in the Via Degli Artisti, where we found Wilfred Thompson at work on his decoration for the English church. After the tense atmosphere of the embassy the studio seemed strangely peaceful. On the easel was a picture, still wet, of the pine trees in the Villa Borghese, with the red sunset light striking between their smooth stems. A little cat rubbed its arched back against my dress purring her friendly song of welcome, “three thrums, three thrums.” We felt like conspirators come to break up our friend’s quiet life. He listened gravely to the proposition that he should volunteer for the relief ship, and took time to consider it. In one sense it was not difficult for him to go, he said; he only had to find a home for the kitten, and, as a lesser consideration, to make a will. The words struck chill; there was danger then! In the end Thompson decided to go; he spoke without enthusiasm; it was evident that having been called upon he felt it his duty to go. His mood was in strong contrast to the enthusiasm of those men at the Embassy; they were on the circuit of the Great Dynamo, they throbbed with the thrill of it, glowed with the Niagara-like power of it. Tuesday morning Thompson offered his services to Captain Belknap. When we met him that afternoon, we knew that he too had come within the magnetic circle, had felt the thrill of the Great Dynamo, for from that time on he toiled like the others with heart and soul, with nerves and body doing double, triple work. “Thompson’s got the pace,” said J., “a jolly good one too.” A man may not choose how he shall serve the great Republic, but whatever service is asked of him, that let him render with heart and soul. Though Thompson would not have chosen the post of supercargo--any more than Flint would have asked to be cashier or J. interpreter--once it was assigned him, he threw himself into the work with all his might. The studio saw him no more; the little cat--all the family he had--missed him. He spent his days and most of his nights trying to bring order out of that chaos of supplies, checking bills, making lists and invoices of clothes, food, medicine, tools, all the wonderful things bought for the relief ship. The cargo was got together somehow, anyhow; the thing was done--that was the main point. From morning till night those tireless men and women bought and bought, sewed and sewed, packed and tied up in bundles the stores, clothing, shoes, medicines, for the sufferers. It was Thompson’s duty to try and bring some sort of order out of that chaos. When men and women are dying of cold and hunger, when human life is at stake and the race is with death, haste is the only thing to strive for; waste counts not. So Griscom and his Americans resolutely cut the Gordian knots of red tape that strangle Italy, whenever they came across one, and never counted the cost.