Long important envelopes lettered across the top “On His Majesty’s Service” begin to arrive in my mail. All the government offices will be “at home” and helpful—when a personal interview has further convinced each that I am clearly not at all a German person nor the dangerous species of the suffragist. Where are the slippers that will match this gown? And which are the beads that will be best? Mine is a hazardous undertaking, you see, that requires all of the art at the command of a woman: I must so state the mission on which I have come that _my_ woman movement may seem pleasing in the eyes of a man—why, possibly a man whose country house even may have been burned in behalf of votes for women! Clearly I must mind my phrases, to get my permits. And if you’re a journalist in war-time, you need the permit as you do your daily bread. To get it, you write about it and call about it and write about it some more. And then it comes like this: FOREIGN OFFICE, Nov. 6, 1917. _Dear Mrs. Daggett_:— If you will call to-morrow Wednesday at 3 o’clock at the main entrance to Woolwich Arsenal and ask for Miss Barker, presenting the attached paper, you will find that arrangements have been made for your visit. Yours very truly, G. S. B. Or it comes like this: HEADQUARTERS, LONDON DISTRICT, Horse Guards, S.W., Nov. 7, 1917. MRS. M. P. DAGGETT, Room 464 Ritz Hotel, _Dear Madam_:— I have pleasure in informing you that under War Office instructions I have arranged with the officer commanding 3rd London General Hospital, Wandsworth Common, S.W., for you to visit his hospital at 11 A. M. on Friday next, the 9th instant. I am, dear Madam Yours faithfully, O. —— COLONEL D.A.D.M.S. London District. England in war-time is open for my inspection. I am getting my data nicely when one day there develops the dilemma of getting away with it. I open the _Times_ one morning to read a new law: “On and after Dec. 1,” the newspaper announces, “no one may be permitted to take out of England any photograph or printed or written material other than letters.” I have a trunkful. Clearly I can’t get by any khaki line with that concealed about my person. Sir Gilbert walks twice, three times up and down the red room. “I’ll see what I can do about it,” he says. “I don’t know. But I’ll try.” A few days later my data begins to go right through all the laws. “First consignment,” I cabled across the Atlantic, “coming on the _St. Louis_, if it doesn’t strike a mine.” I follow it with a registered letter to the editor: “I hope God and you will always be good to Gilbert Parker. And now if I don’t get back—” And I give him exact directions about the material on the way. For it is no idle imagining that I may not reach home.